


I Would Shun the Light

by middyblue (daisyblaine)



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Exhibitionism, Frottage, M/M, New York City
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:26:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25369822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisyblaine/pseuds/middyblue
Summary: A superhero AU: The Roses never stayed in Schitts Creek; instead, David hunted down their business manager, used arrows to put the fear of god into him, got some of the money back, and is leaning into the vigilante justice life with Stevie in NYC. Enter Patrick.
Relationships: Alexis Rose & David Rose, Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Stevie Budd & David Rose
Comments: 32
Kudos: 107





	I Would Shun the Light

**Author's Note:**

> I've had the first thousand words or so just sitting in a Google Doc for like a year and then this week out of the blue the rest just... happened. The title comes from the song [Sunlight by Hozier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PELeEo33JXs):
> 
> _I would shun the light, share in evening's cool and quiet  
>  Who would trade that hum of night for  
> Sunlight, sunlight, sunlight  
> But whose heart would not take flight  
> Betray the moon as acolyte  
> On first and fierce affirming sight  
> Sunlight, sunlight, sunlight  
> I had been lost to you, sunlight  
> Flew like a moth to you, sunlight oh sunlight  
> Oh, your love is sunlight  
> _
> 
> David wears a black version of the [green leather getup](https://thumbor.forbes.com/thumbor/960x0/https%3A%2F%2Fblogs-images.forbes.com%2Ferikkain%2Ffiles%2F2016%2F10%2FArrow-S5E1-4.jpg) from the CW show Arrow, but that and the archery are the only things taken from that show, so you really don't need to have seen it. The only thing you need to know is that the town of Schitt's Creek doesn't really exist here; everyone lives in New York.

David stumbles a little trying to slip through the apartment door, banging into the door jamb with the leg with the still-bleeding bullet graze, and does his best to hold in the scream. He has to stand still and squeeze his eyes shut, but he doesn’t hear Alexis wake up, thank god. 

She's probably not even home tonight, but he’s erring on the side of caution after the incident a few weeks ago when he was sharpening his arrows with his bedroom door cracked open at four in the morning and she wandered in looking for some eyeliner when she was supposed to be out with Paolo or Stavros or who-the-fuck-ever. 

When the searing pain in his leg subsides enough that he can move again, he shuffles as quietly as possible to the bathroom, leaving the lights off, and as soon as he closes and locks the bathroom door he sinks to the floor and moans. 

He gets about twenty seconds of peace before his phone buzzes and he winces, gingerly pulling it out of its little pouch on his jacket. 

_bandage that fucking graze or ELSE,_ Stevie texts. 

_you dont scare me_ , he replies, scowling. He starts pulling off his pants anyway, flinching when the leather pulls on his brand new open wound. Wonderful; another scar. 

His phone buzzes again, jittering on the white tile floor, and it shows Stevie’s reply when his face unlocks it: a knife emoji, a blood drop emoji, a cop emoji. He sighs and digs out the first aid kit, hidden carefully under the sink behind cleaning supplies that Alexis will never ever touch. 

He manages to stitch it up without crying, which is a nice change from the last two times, and before he rinses off the blood he takes a picture of the gory mess and sends it to Stevie. 

_fuck u_ , she texts back, and then, _u really need to reconsider bringing him in. this cant happen again._

He locks his phone again without responding, and starts pulling off the rest of the suit to get in the shower. The absolute last thing he wants is to bring Stevie’s cousin’s college bro in on his secret mission thing. He’s still not one hundred percent sure it was a good idea to bring _Stevie_ in on it. 

Honestly, every time he goes out, he’s surprised that it’s still happening, that he hasn’t been caught, that he hasn’t been _killed_. 

It started out easy enough: when his family lost their money, he couldn’t just… sit and wait for a savior. And the rage at what Eli had done was consuming him in a bad way, like the black hole of self-hatred after Sebastien that had sucked him down into some really shitty times. He’d realized while in the rundown motel they were temporarily staying at, stuck in a room with Alexis for a month, that he maybe wouldn’t survive falling into that hole again. 

So instead he’d done some digging into their accountant, tracked him down to an island with no extradition, scared the shit out of him by pulling on a leather hood he’d sworn would’ve gotten more play after the FW2015 shows and aiming an arrow at him, and gotten him to return at least some of the money. 

It actually hadn’t been a total shitshow; he’d gotten to spend the weekend on the island the asshole had hidden out on and worked on his complexion and found an archery range to brush up on his admittedly rusty skills. 

And, sure, since then he hasn’t done it _entirely_ on his own: his and Alexis’s new neighbor Stevie had butted her way in, unable to not be nosy when he was borrowing her laptop for retail research after Alexis spilled a latte on his. When he mentioned that the tax haven tropical paradise was full of assholes just like their accountant, she’d made a flippant comment about them maybe going after some of these other rich white men who ruined other people’s lives for profit. And there are plenty of those right here in New York, ripping off other unsuspecting families, some of them not even wealthy to begin with. 

Their new case is a ring of payday loan sharks with some super sketchy mob ties, which is what leads him here, trying not to get blood in the grout of the floor of the bathroom he shares with his sister. Wiping it off the tile is a cinch but scrubbing it out of the grout could actually take all night, and his shoulder is already sore from the job. 

So. A straight line, really, from the government storming the Rose mansion to suiting up a few times a week after Alexis goes to bed and heading into the city to Robin Hood it up, albeit in a designer hood and with archery skills originally cultivated when he rebelled against everyone else taking fencing lessons in prep school. 

Unfortunately, the rich asshole tonight had had a gun _taped to the underside of his desk_ , what the _fuck_ , and apparently knew how to use it. Stevie had started shouting in his earpiece the second after the shot went off, but before that he had actually gotten Hennessey to pull up the list of the next bank transfers in the sleazeball chain (through DeutscheBank, because of course), and he’s not an idiot. 

While Hennessey was babbling to 911 on the phone about a crazed man in a hood holding him hostage ( _please_ ), David had CTRL+P’d the shit out of the situation. He had to wait an agonizing eternity for the goddamn printer to do its goddamn job, bleeding on Hennessey’s carpet a bit and trying to avoid looking _directly_ at the barrel of the gun waving in his direction, but he’d been able to grab the printout before getting the hell out of there. 

He’d barely made it across town without anyone seeing him. There _may_ be one or two night owls at the Equinox a few blocks up the street who might possibly have gotten a suspicious look at the creep in the outfit hurrying past, but then again, this is New York. 

Still. Not a _great_ night, but not terrible. And he doesn’t actually know enough German or code to be able to get into DB, and he strongly doubts Stevie will. He’s going to have to talk to that Patrick guy, he thinks morosely as he finally climbs into bed, the garbage trucks already starting their morning routes outside his window. 

*

Even considering that he had to text Stevie to set up a meeting with Patrick, the day begins with a particularly shitty omen: fucking Kyle comes by the boutique first thing in the morning, before David is even awake. Honestly, David is rarely ever fully awake, anymore, but still. Ten in the morning is too fucking early for the guy who talked you into paying for a trip to Johannesberg and then left you to pace around the hotel room alone for three days while they went out partying with a group of Swedish university students. 

“Can I help you find anything?” David asks automatically, even though he is firmly against the concept of helpful salespeople. Kyle pouts his lower lip and David’s gaze follows, as Kyle meant it to. 

“Yeah, so, what’s the deal?” Kyle leans against a counter, creating a long line from his shoulder to his boots. 

“What do you mean?” David shakes out the Irish knit he’s just folded and carefully refolds it, for something to do with his hands. Kyle shakes his head so that his hair falls just so across his forehead. 

“This weekend. London or Biarritz?” Kyle takes a dreamcatcher, which Alexis had insisted that David needed to stock, from its burnished brass hook on the wall, looks at the back of it, and drops it carelessly on the bar of soap on display on the shelf below. David tries to hold in the wince; it really shouldn’t be touching those oils. Kyle looks at him expectantly from under hooded eyes. David shakes his head. 

“What?” 

“Where are we going?” Kyle asks impatiently. 

“I don’t know! Who’s ‘we?’” 

Kyle rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Jaz said she wants to take her dad’s jet to Berlin. I told her, German is an ugly fuckin’ language, but does she care? No.” 

“Oh. We’re going to Berlin?” 

Kyle gives him a blank look. “No.” The ‘fuckface’ is implied, although he doesn’t say it. David feels his palms sweating. “Jaz is taking me and John-Paul to Berlin. I just thought, you and I, we have fun, right?” 

“Right, of course.” 

“If you’re going to be… here…” Kyle casts a skeptical glance around David’s boutique. One of the six-foot plaster ostriches is crooked. “I guess I’ll go to Berlin.” 

“No, no,” David says, frantically doing calculations to see how much he’d need to sell today in order to, fuck, charter a jet and close the store for a few days and pay for the hotel and the food and the drugs, “I can totally --” 

Ignoring him, Kyle pulls out his phone and starts typing, sauntering away. 

“Bye,” David says pathetically as he leaves, hating himself. 

Alone in the store again, he clenches his hands and releases a breath. Fucking Eli. Fuck Dad, too, for trusting someone who screwed them over so thoroughly. 

David managed to get a loan to open this boutique, but for some reason it’s not doing nearly as well as his gallery was, and none of his old patrons want anything to do with him now. 

And he can’t afford to live on his own anymore, so he has to live in a godforsaken fourth-floor walkup with Alexis in _Brooklyn_. And not even the cool part of Brooklyn -- their neighbors are Stevie and a bunch of boring families with weird little kids who do things like flush their toys down the toilet or sink or wherever and make Stevie have to shut down the building’s plumbing for an hour to fix it _right_ when David wants a shower. 

David waits a few seconds to make sure Kyle isn’t coming back -- not that he would -- before hurrying over to straighten the ostrich. He spends the next hour rearranging the dream catchers, moving them to the hook closest to the door, then back to the hook closest to the register. By the time he has to go meet up with Patrick, his store looks immaculate. 

_so exactly how douchebaggy is this guy_ , he texts Stevie as he weaves his way down 4th Ave. The last thing he needs is to be forced to spend his lunch break making forced small talk with some guy who’s staring at the sports game playing on the TV over David’s shoulder. There is _always_ a sports game playing on the TV at these generic straight-people places. 

Honestly, he should just turn around and go back to the boutique. Granted, walk-ins have been… sparse, lately, but that just means that he can’t afford to miss even one. God, this is stupid. His phone vibrates and he fights the urge to throw it in the path of a cab passing by. 

_chill, david_ , Stevie replies. He shoves his phone into the pocket of his jacket and scowls hard enough to get a skeeved-out look from a skittish intern-looking girl staring out from a Starbucks line as he passes. 

He tries to remember exactly how Stevie knows Patrick -- he’s, like, her surprisingly-smart hick cousin’s nerdy college roommate, or something. Her cousin, the one who breathed mostly weed through high school and then went on to double-major in math and, like, rocket science at UPenn, moved back to his and Stevie's hometown, but Stevie said his old roommate Patrick had recently moved to the city and is looking for work. 

He tugs his phone back out and panic-texts Stevie: _he knows we're not paying him right_

Someone knocks into his shoulder as they pass and he looks up to realize he’s gone half a block too far, so he abruptly turns around and bumps his bandaged leg on someone’s jogging stroller. He unlocks his phone while trying to hold in the shriek of pain and barely succeeds. 

_someones gotta pay the kid_ , Stevie says, and then, _just so u kno im unclogging caseys toilet again n that is more enjoyable than having this convo 4 the 6th time_

He winces. _almost there will report back. sorry about your life_

_gonna put wtvr his son jammed down the u bend under ur pillow <3_

David makes a face at his phone and looks up to see the coffee shop he’s been looking for -- and there’s a straight-laced guy sitting at the high-top in the window staring back at him. He takes a breath and smooths the hem of his sweater. 

Of course, of course, the guy holds out a hand to him as soon as he walks in the door. 

“David? Hi, I’m Patrick.” 

He’s wearing a blue button-down shirt and jeans and looks like every other finance bro who’s spent too long at work and doesn’t know how to dress like a normal person anymore. David shakes his hand and tries to smile without grimacing. Alexis brings these guys home, sometimes, and David used to be as cutting as possible to them in front of her until it got boring to be witty at what felt like the exact same man over and over. 

“Stevie said you’d be the one wearing an, um, ‘outrageous sweater.’” 

David looks down at himself: the mohair softens the harsh geometric pattern that spills across the front of his sweater. He really likes this one, actually. 

“Well,” he says. Patrick’s smile falters. David doesn’t really know what to say next, and he knew it; he told Stevie this would happen. This guy looks like he brushes his teeth for two minutes exactly and flosses every time and probably pays his rent a week early and doesn’t even put up art if his lease says no holes in the walls. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Patrick says. “Want to - ?” He gestures at the empty seat next to him. 

“I need coffee,” David says abruptly. He can’t do this with only four hours of sleep. 

“I’ll be here,” Patrick says, with an infuriatingly patient smile. 

David squints at him and turns to head to the counter, pulling out his phone as he goes. He texts Stevie one word, _no_ , and she sends him a middle finger emoji as the barista takes his card. 

Once he has some caffeine to fortify him, he rejoins Patrick at the table in the window. 

“So how much do you know about what’s going on?” he asks, staring straight ahead. In the window, he sees the faint reflection of Patrick looking at him before turning to look out the window as well. 

“Um. Brian said you needed someone who knows computers? I mean, it’s not my biggest strength, but I can hold my own.” 

“Have you ever gotten into DeutscheBank?” David asks bluntly, glancing over. Patrick’s drinking his coffee a little creamy. David wonders if it’s sweetened. Patrick’s eyebrows float up in response. 

“No.” 

“Any banks?” 

“Uh. No.” 

“Okay. Clearly, we’ve had some wires crossed.” David starts to get up, and Patrick grabs his wrist. David tugs it back and holds himself back more than arm’s length from Patrick, who lifts his hands up for a second in apology. Patrick isn’t wearing a watch, which seems absurd. He’s fully the type of guy who wears a watch every single day. 

“Sorry. Uh.” Patrick rubs the back of his head, and David has to take a reluctant step closer to get out of the path of a couple of college students chatting on their way out the door. “Look. I need this.” 

“We can’t pay you,” David says, sighing. “And if you can’t even --” 

“I can learn,” Patrick interrupts. “I’m a quick study.” 

Instead of turning to go, David hesitates. Patrick’s wearing a button-down, sure, but he’s also wearing slightly scuffed brown boots. His jeans are baggier than David’s but fit snugly around his hips. His wrists are bare. His eyes are brown, and steady, and determined. 

“Give me a chance. Bring me in on this.” 

“Why?” David asks wearily. “It’s exhausting. I’m exhausted. And I’m broke, and tired, and alone, and some days it hardly seems worth it.” 

“Because I can help. And, you know. I could use the experience.” 

“If you’re a cop, we’ll mail you to Antarctica,” David warns. Patrick grins. 

“Deal.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” Patrick keeps smiling, smiling _while looking at David_ , and he’s not really sure what to do with that. 

“So. Um.” David tries to remember what else he meant to bring up. Patrick takes a sip of his coffee and waits, still looking at David. “How comfortable are you with, like, violence and blood and things?” Patrick chokes on his mouthful of coffee and David replays that sentence in his head. “God, I mean. No.” His leg throbs. It better not be getting infected; that would be just his luck. “Just. That’s kind of what we do? Normally. That’s the thing. At our, um.” He glances over Patrick’s shoulder at a student in a pom-pom beanie clearly eavesdropping from the next table. “At our BDSM club.” Patrick squints and tilts his head. David clears his throat and flicks his eyes over at beanie-girl. 

“Why don’t we go for a walk,” Patrick says slowly. David nods and turns on his heel to head out. He’s not one hundred percent sure, but it _feels_ like Patrick guides him out the door, just barely not touching his lower back. “So let me get this straight,” Patrick says, walking toward the subway station. “You asked me to meet you at one of the most crowded coffee shops in Brooklyn to talk about -- what is it? Some kind of vigilante kick? I mean, are you wearing the outfit under your clothes like Superman?” 

“It’s New York!” David blurts, gesturing around them. “Literally no one notices.” To serve his point, no one passing them by on the sidewalk even reacts. 

“It is,” Patrick says, smiling a little. David feels his mouth curl in response. “Okay. So. You’re the one -- ?” 

“Yes. I’m the one.” 

“Are there guns involved?” 

“What -- well, sometimes. Not me,” he adds quickly. “I just --” He mimes aiming an arrow, his half-empty coffee cup in place of the bow. 

“But sometimes.” 

“Sometimes, at me.” 

“Okay.” Patrick sips his coffee, clearly thinking. David waits. He’s still got that thrum of anxiety in his chest, but he feels like… Patrick wouldn’t tell. He’s taking it seriously, which is more than he can say for Stevie’s reaction, which was to laugh in his face. “I know someone who could help with the medical side of things. Unless you have a doctor already?” 

“I can stitch myself up.” 

“I have to ask -- are you limping?” David opens his mouth, looks away. “I know a guy,” Patrick says firmly, like he knows David’s leg wound is opening up again and currently causing his pants to keep sticking to it uncomfortably as he walks. “So. DeutscheBank, huh?” 

“Yes. Please.” David digs the list of names, account numbers, and transfer amounts out of his pocket and hands it to Patrick, who reads it carefully before slipping it into his own pocket. “We need to know where the money goes next.” 

“Okay.” 

“So. When you have that, you can come by the Rose Apothecary on Broome.” 

“Rose Apothecary,” Patrick repeats. “Good name.” 

**

Of course, Patrick comes by at the _worst_ possible time: Alexis is in the store, harassing David about his weekend plans and rearranging his products and generally making a nuisance of herself, as if they don’t already spend enough time together at the apartment. 

David comes out of the back room around three, where he’s been looking for a box of SPF skin cream that definitely should be there but somehow isn’t, to find Alexis sitting on a display table, giggling and flipping her hair at Patrick, who looks more bemused than anything else. 

“Patrick!” David nearly drops his phone and sets it on the counter before that can happen -- he really, truly, can’t afford to keep replacing it. 

“Hey,” Patrick says, looking incredibly relieved. David doesn’t blame him. “Glad I found the right place.” Alexis frowns and waves a scarf at Patrick to get his attention back. 

“You know David?” she asks. 

“Yeah, we’re meeting to... um.” Patrick shoots David an uncertain look. 

“It’s none of your business,” David snarks at her. She makes an _oh_ face, raised eyebrows and pursed lips, and hops off the table. 

“Hey, David, can I have some more lip balms?” 

“You didn’t pay for the last ones.” 

“Free advertising, David!” 

“Do you actually tell your friends where they come from?” he asks, folding his arms. Patrick watches them bicker with an amused look. 

“Well,” she says, and flails her wrists a bit as she thinks of something to say. “They can see the label on the pot, probably.” 

“Then no!” 

“Ugh!” 

“What do you do, Alexis?” Patrick asks politely. 

“I’m a lifestyle promoter,” she says with a flick of her hair, redirecting the force of her personality at him with a swish of her dress. David plucks at the sleeves of his sweater. They’re a little long and frayed, because he had to buy it not even off the rack but off eBay. 

“She’s an Instagram influencer,” David corrects. Patrick raises his eyebrows. 

“You’re so annoying, David. Anyway, Alicia is bringing us to Dubai in a bit, so can I please have some lip balms? It gets _so_ dry in the desert,” she adds, with a conspiratorial look at Patrick, as if he understands the plights of influencers sent to photograph themselves on sand dunes, as if that’s inspirational for her four million middle-America followers. 

“Ugh, fine. Two.” 

“Thanks!” she chirps, plucking them from their spot on the counter by David’s elbow. “You boys have fun,” she coos, scratching at Patrick’s shoulder. She gives him a big wink and Patrick just looks kind of stunned, as men usually do around her. 

“Please go,” David says, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. There are tea-brown _water spots_ up there, so it doesn’t make him feel much better, but at least he won’t have to look at Patrick fawning at his sister as she walks away. 

It doesn’t work, though, because she reaches over and tugs on his earlobe to whisper loudly, “He’s _cute_!” before making her way out the door. 

The silence echoes in her wake for a minute. 

“So,” David says. “That’s my sister.” 

“She seems nice,” Patrick ventures, and David makes a face. Patrick’s got that smile on, the one that makes David feel like he’s part of a joke, and he casts around for something else to say. 

“So what do you have?” 

Patrick pulls out a thumb drive and hands it over. It’s a basic stainless steel one, with a loop on one end for a keychain. 

“It’s not much yet,” Patrick says, drumming his fingers on the counter between them, “but I think it should be a good start. It’s got some names, if you want to talk to people, do a little recon, or whatever.” 

“Thanks,” David says tentatively. The drive is warm from being in Patrick’s pocket, and he holds it in his palm for a second before putting it in his pocket. 

“It looks like there are a few people here in the city, and some maybe in Russia. That’ll take a little while longer to go through, just because I don’t know Russian. But if I were to guess, you might be spending a few nights down in Sheepshead.” 

“Ugh, god, and they’re doing night construction on the Q.” 

“What, you don’t swing from building to building?” Patrick asks, grinning. 

“I’m not Spiderman,” David retorts. Patrick looks him up and down, and David squirms his shoulders. 

“Huh. Well, you’ve got at least two sidekicks now.” 

“Do I?” 

“Um.” Patrick clears his throat. “Let me give you my number, in case you need me for anything.” 

“Right -- sure.” David pulls out his phone and hands it over. Patrick’s fingers brush his, and Patrick gives him a small smile, which is confusing as hell. 

“Do we need a cover?” 

“Hm, what?” Jesus, David needs to get a grip and stop staring at this guy’s eyelashes. 

“For how we know each other.” Patrick hands David’s phone back. “Unless you want to tell your sister that we’re dating, or something.” David’s brain short-circuits a little. Patrick looks around, apparently oblivious to David’s goldfish imitation. “I like your store, by the way. It’s very… you.” David tenses. “How is it doing? Do you usually get a rush later in the day?” 

“Um. Sure.” No. 

“Fifty dollars for… what is this?” Patrick picks up a body cream and frowns at it. 

“Body cream with coconut oil and sandalwood. It’s very popular,” David says, crossing his arms. Patrick hums, as if he’s thinking. David waits impatiently. He wants to hurry him out, get him to stop _looking_ at everything, but then he’d be alone here until he goes home to Alexis or, more likely, an empty apartment. 

“Not to be intrusive, but I do have a degree in business,” Patrick says, interrupting David nervously twisting a braided leather bracelet. “If you want, I could help you out here? Like, for real. And then we wouldn’t need a cover story.” 

“Um. Right. Sure. I still can’t really pay you, though.” 

“Hm.” Patrick gives him a considering look. “Let me think about that. Do you have books? I promise to bring them back tomorrow.” 

“I -- sure.” David takes the excuse to duck into the back room for a minute and flip out in private. His hands are shaking, and there’s a loud noise in his ears, waves pulling and crashing. 

He’s very quickly losing control of both his nightlife and his day job and this is so, so not how this was supposed to go. He should be on a jet to Biarritz, for fuck’s sake. In another life, he still has his gallery with actual paying patrons, he still has his friends, he still has money to make this all so much easier. At the very least, Patrick should’ve been some tech guy geek with no relevant skills or -- or charisma, or whatever it is that makes David unable to bring himself to disappoint him. Maybe he’s a supervillain, David thinks, somewhat hysterically. 

_is patrick a supervillain_ , he texts Stevie. 

_wtf david_

_!?! last night i dressed up in black leather and shot arrows at some guys trying to rob a waitress!! it’s not out of the question that supervillains would be a thing_

_supervillains are not a thing. stop freaking out. if u want to stop, we dont have to keep doing it. no 1 wld kno_

_David_ would know. And he knows, he just knows, that there’s more to this if they keep pulling the threads he got from Hennessey. He imagines another family getting the news like they did, that the entire rug has been pulled out from underneath them, that someone who was supposed to be a support beam stole the entire foundation their home was built on. And he can’t -- he can’t let that happen. He needs to see it through. 

He pulls the leatherbound book from its desk drawer, not bothering to open it and look over the tentatively penciled-in entries, and hugs it for a second, breathing in and out. Maybe he should be more worried about handing this over to a virtual stranger, but Patrick is -- Patrick has warm eyes, and he didn’t run away when David asked him for help, and he has some weird idea that he _can_ help David. And David needs -- well. He needs. 

“This is my life,” he warns Patrick, coming back out to the store with his face carefully held still, like maybe he can keep Patrick from noticing that he’s just had a quick meltdown in the back room. Patrick looks up from the pot of face mask clay he’s examining. “Like. It’s my entire life. If you fuck this up for me, I will end you. With arrows.” Patrick presses his lips together in a white-guy half-smile and nods. 

“Understood. I’ll see you tomorrow, David,” Patrick says, holding his gaze, as if it’s important to him that David trusts that. 

“See you,” David echoes. 

Fuck. 

***

The next day starts out promising: he gives the thumb drive to Stevie, who will look at it in between jobs while David’s at the boutique. He has three whole customers before lunch, which he buys from the deli next door and goes to eat in the green space between Chrystie and Forsyth, and he doesn’t even get hassled the whole twenty minutes. The afternoon is a little slow, but that’s okay; right at closing, a pair of tourists wander in, and although they don’t actually buy more than lip balms, they might tell their friends. He manages to catch an express train home that’s not even all that crowded. 

All in all, it’s been such a good day that he doesn’t even mind climbing the four flights of stairs at the end of it. 

“David,” Stevie pants, sticking her head out the Manzos’ door down the hall as he passes, “we’re on for tonight.” The flannel she’s wearing over a pair of overalls has flecks of white paint on it, but he’s learned not to ask. 

“What?” 

“Tonight,” she repeats impatiently. “We’re meeting at mine at eleven.” 

“What if I had plans?” 

She gives him a look. “David.” 

“Ugh. Fine. See you later.” 

She waves a hand and disappears back into the Manzos’ apartment. 

Alexis isn’t home, of course; she’s in Dubai, supposedly, but her instagram posts have tagged this guy Omar whom she met in Riyadh last year, so he heats up some leftover Indian takeout and eats it straight from the container while bracing for a call from the embassy in Saudi Arabia. 

At eleven, he takes the duffel bag with his outfit, bow, and quiver and his phone charger and locks the door behind him. He meets no one in the stairwell on his way down to Stevie’s on the first floor, and when he knocks twice on her door it opens immediately. 

“Good, you’re here,” she says, turning away to leave him to close the door behind himself. “Have you been eating garlic naan?” 

David huffs a breath into his cupped hand and smells; oops. 

“Sorry. Forgot to brush.” 

“I’m just offended you didn’t bring any to share,” Patrick says, smiling from his seat next to Stevie’s desk. David double-takes. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck why didn’t he brush his teeth? 

“Hi. Um. Since Stevie’s the host, I think you should direct any complaints her way.” 

Stevie snorts and drops ungracefully into her desk chair. “Sit down and look pretty,” she says, her attention on her laptop. 

“Um, excusez-moi.” 

“Do you go out like that?” Patrick asks, nodding at David’s sweater. “Your targets must be really intimidated.” 

“Ha, ha.” David lifts his duffel and drops it on Stevie’s bed. “I didn’t want anyone to see me wearing the leather.” 

“I mean, don’t get me wrong: it is intimidating.” 

David feels himself smirk at Patrick, who grins back. 

“Okay, not that I’m not enjoying this, but we should get started,” Stevie interrupts. 

“Right.” Patrick clears his throat and focuses on her; David feels his shoulders drop at the loss of his attention and he tugs on a lock of Stevie’s hair as he goes to stand behind her to follow along. She swats his hand without looking. 

“So Patrick found that two of the transfers went to people here in New York. One in Sheepshead, and one in FiDi, which is interesting.” 

Patrick picks up the thread. “So the one in Sheepshead Bay is Anatoli Baryshnikov. He came from the USSR in the late eighties, and his friends are generally Brighton Beach Bratva.” 

“Uh huh,” David says. 

“Russian mob,” Patrick explains. 

“Right. Bad guys,” Stevie adds, as if he needed that clarification. “Probably sketchy, more likely than not to be at least semi-involved in whatever it is Hennessey was trying to kill you over.” 

“But Hennessey is Irish,” David says. He feels a forehead crinkle forming. Stevie snorts. 

“Yeah, he calls himself a Westie in his username on Reddit,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Moron. Seems like he’s just trying to get back to the mob glory days and got in way over his head. I mean,” she laughs, “Reddit. Like, god, just roll up to the FBI and tell them your supervillain plans; it’d be less embarrassing.” David narrows his eyes at her and she coughs. “Anyway.” 

“So we think you might want to pay Anatoli a visit while we dig more into the FiDi angle,” Patrick says helpfully. “You know. Carefully.” 

“Right,” David says slowly. “Sure. I’ll just walk up to a Russian mobster and ask what his bad guy plans are.” 

Stevie shrugs. 

“You’re the expert here, David,” Patrick says, although his eyebrows are furrowed. In concern? David can’t really tell, but it doesn’t really matter; he knows he’s going out to Sheepshead Bay tonight. 

It’s different, this time, getting ready in Stevie’s cramped little bathroom, knowing Patrick’s out there too. He hisses a little as he gingerly pulls the black leather pants up over the bandaged graze, but hopefully it’s quiet enough that neither of them hear it. He carefully applies the black grease paint around his eyes, slicks his hair back, and zips up the black leather jacket. He gives himself a once-over in her tiny oval mirror over the sink: he looks pretty damn good. 

They’re talking as he opens the door, but at his first step into the room Patrick stops talking in the middle of whatever he was saying and stares at David. Stevie looks back and forth between them, a mischievous smile growing on her face. 

“What do you think, Patrick?” she asks, too knowingly. David glares at her. 

“It-it’s fine. Good. You look good.” 

“Show him the look with the hood up,” Stevie suggests, waggling her eyebrows. David tries not to hunch his shoulders; he’s not in this to act out some straight boy’s superhero fantasy. But Patrick’s still staring, and Stevie raises her eyebrows again with an encouraging smile, which is weird enough all on its own. 

So he lifts the hood up and settles it on his hair. Stevie hands him his bow and quiver and steps back, looking at him appraisingly. 

“Wow,” Patrick says faintly. 

“I know, right? He looks good.” 

“Stevie,” David says tightly. She flaps a hand at him. 

“I’m allowed to say that. I put the look together.” 

“Excuse you,” he argues, dropping the hood back down. “Who came up with the sketch?” 

“Who sourced you a fucking military-grade bow and composite arrows?” she counters. “Not to mention the grease paint.” 

“Which is a nightmare to get off. You know how important skincare is to me --” 

“Okay,” Patrick interrupts. “Guys?” 

“Right. Okay. What’s the plan? I’ll shoot him with an arrow if he doesn’t tell me what the money’s for?” 

“I mean, what else?” Stevie says, turning back to her laptop, where she has a satellite map up. “And he’ll have goons.” 

“Ugh, goons.” 

“Right. So be careful.” 

David salutes her and taps his pockets to make sure he has everything: phone (on silent), GPS tag for Stevie to find him if he goes unconscious, relay comms device for his earpiece, flashbangs. 

“Be careful,” Patrick calls after him as he leaves out Stevie’s fire escape. 

Even though it’s late summer, the night is pretty cool, so at least he’s not sweating through his leather, although that’ll probably start once he’s really moving. At least the graze is starting to heal and has been bandaged well. 

He sticks to alleys, mostly, and okay, sometimes he does send an arrow up and swing from building to building, but it’s hard to resist the thrill of it: gliding through the early September night air of Brooklyn, barely missing brushing a passing subway car, relying on pure instinct to avoid people and cops and cars and subway trains. It’s the only time, really, when things feel _right_. When he feels like he, David, is enough. 

It almost feels like too soon when he reaches the rooftop of the warehouse next to Baryshnikov’s, but his adrenaline is rising and he’s ready to turn into whatever the clean, sharp thing is that he becomes once he has an arrow pointed at someone. 

“Okay, David,” Stevie says in his ear. “It looks like he’s got two guys posted at the main entrance, two at the back. Two delivery bays on the east side. I can’t see how many guys are in the building, but I’d bet at least a couple. He should be in the main office, just to the right as you go in through the right-hand delivery bay.” 

“Copy,” he says under his breath. He makes his way across the neighboring rooftop, staying low and in the shadows, to see where his options are for getting into the building. 

“David, this is Patrick.” 

“Go.” 

“I know you usually like to go through the delivery bays, but I really think tonight you should try a window.” 

“Negative. Windows are too high.” 

“David. The traffic heat map suggests that they’ve had a few deliveries in the past hour. I really think you should try to go in a window. Or come back and regroup.” 

David huffs and takes out his earpiece, dropping it into the pocket with the flashbangs. Stevie will be pissed, but he needs to focus, and ‘come back and regroup’ is the opposite of helpful right now. 

He waits a minute on the rooftop, watching the delivery bays. Patrick was right about one thing: they’re much more active than they should be at this time of night. Deliveries tend to come in just before dawn, not midnight, but there are guys hanging around there and talking loudly enough that he can pick up the cadence if not the words. 

He circles around to the main entrance, where employees would come and go during normal business hours in a legitimate warehouse, and it’s totally quiet. If everyone’s out back with the delivery, whatever it is, then the front should be clear. 

Just to be sure, he fires an arrow at one of the little spotlights in the patch of grass in front of the door. If there’s anyone patrolling there, it should catch their attention and draw them out. The light flares and dies, as expected, and he makes himself wait a full minute. 

No one comes running -- they must all be out back, and it must be a really important delivery. Guns? Drugs? Counterfeit money? It’s a pretty small warehouse and the block is still bordering on residential, so it can’t be anything too attention-grabbing. 

He thinks it over: Hennessey is a low-level payday loan shark mafia wannabe who spilled the beans on a ring of something bigger going on. He sent money up the chain to Baryshnikov, who’s getting something big delivered at the wrong time of night, and to someone in the Financial District, among others. 

Whoever it is probably doesn’t live in FiDi; there are so many large transactions going in and out of those IP addresses that they’d likely routed it through there to fly under the radar, which suggests that that location means fuckall when it comes to actually finding them. 

He needs Baryshnikov to talk. There’s not much point in just sneaking around, hoping to find a clue. 

Decision made, he shoots a roped arrow to the ground by the door, secures the other end of the rope to a duct, and uses his bow to zipline down to the ground. 

He lands silently in the grass and makes quick work of the lock before stepping back into the shadows. He pulls his earpiece out of his pocket and stuffs it back in his ear. 

“I’m going in,” he whispers. 

“You motherfucker,” Stevie swears in his ear. “You goddamn piece of shit, you do _not_ take out your earpiece, we had a _deal_ , I am _turning you in_ \--” 

“David,” Patrick interrupts. David holds himself still in the dark where the blown spotlight should be aimed, listening intently -- to Patrick, to the warehouse. He needs to concentrate. 

“I have to go,” he hisses, when Patrick doesn’t say anything else. “Going dark.” 

“Copy,” Stevie says. “Be careful, shithead.” He rolls his eyes. 

There’s no one waiting by the door, which is weird. He doesn’t like it. The lights are off, just emergency lights at either end of the hallway, but there are lights on in an office a few hundred feet away. He can hear voices echoing from the delivery bay. 

He walks quietly down the hallway to the office, slips in, and locks the door behind himself. Baryshnikov looks up from his desk. He might be surprised, but it’s difficult to tell with Bratva unless you pull something really out of the blue. 

“So.” Baryshnikov leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his chest. “The shitbird has found me.” 

David wrinkles his nose. It’s not a good sign that Baryshnikov was sort of expecting him, but also, come on. Be better, mafia man. 

“What is it you want?” Baryshnikov says, bored. 

“Do you know Hennessey?” 

“I know many men by this name.” 

“The Hennessey who runs the payday loan place in Alphabet City.” 

“Ah.” 

David clenches his bow. “You do know him.” 

“How is it you plan to get this information from me?” Baryshnikov asks casually. 

David aims an arrow at him. Baryshnikov raises his eyebrows a fraction. 

“Well. You found me. You must have found our other associates.” 

“How big does this go?” 

Baryshnikov makes an equivocating noise. “Big to you, perhaps. Not so big to me.” David pulls the arrow back and Baryshnikov raises his hands. “Unemployment is high. I know this. My associates know this. We discuss. We see an opportunity; we take it.” 

“What does that mean?” 

Baryshnikov picks up a paperweight and turns it over in his hands. “Hennessey is a recruit; nothing more. He knows barely enough to be dangerous. He gives people their money, charges interest, all legal.” 

“So where do you come in?” 

“I? I merely have organizational capacity your government can only dream of. I… facilitate.” 

“And these people, you charge them how much interest?” 

Baryshnikov smiles. “I think you may have overstayed your welcome. May I see you out?” 

“You need to tell me what’s going on.” 

“David,” Stevie says in his ear. He ignores her and fires the arrow into the wall behind Baryshnikov’s left ear. He pulls another arrow from his quiver and cocks it, aiming at Baryshnikov’s heart. 

“Tell me what’s going on.” 

“I will tell you this, Mr. Shitbird. You need to stop sniffing around my business and look at your own house.” 

With that, the door slams open. David whirls around, aiming the arrow at five different mobsters who barge into the room pointing very large guns at him, before turning back to Baryshnikov, who shrugs and holds up the paperweight, showing him the panic button hidden on it. 

“You have your methods, I have mine. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” 

David frantically calculates: he could shoot Baryshnikov, but then he’d get shot at least five different ways and it wouldn’t achieve anything other than massive amounts of pain and possibly death. 

“David,” Stevie repeats. “You need to get out of there. Now.” Your own house. Your own house? 

“What does that mean?” David barks at Baryshnikov, who waves a hand. The goons close in on him. 

David fires an arrow at Goon One’s knee, then sprints past him, putting all his adrenaline into going faster. He blindly sends an arrow behind him, still running, gunshots coming from behind him, the door within sight -- blinding pain tears into his side, and he stumbles but keeps moving. He throws a flashbang over his shoulder, closes his eyes to the flash and hopes to god his eardrums don’t burst. He keeps running. 

A hundred feet, fifty feet, twenty feet, ten, he bursts out the door and hurls himself out into the darkness. 

****

It takes over an hour for him to make it back to their building, and he does a circuit around the block before going in, to make sure he hasn’t been followed. There’s no way he’s going to make it up four flights of stairs; he bangs his fist twice on Stevie’s door and nearly falls in when she opens it. 

“You - piece - of - _shit_!” she shrieks, hitting his arm. David closes the door behind himself and leans heavily against it. He looks over her shoulder to Patrick, who’s sitting exactly where he was earlier, his face paper-white. 

“Can you wait before turning me in, please?” David asks faintly. “I think I’ve been shot.” He touches his side and his hand comes away bloody. His knees buckle. 

“I hate you so goddamn much, David Rose,” Stevie swears, and she sticks her shoulder under his arm to guide him to the bed. 

“Blood on your sheets,” he chokes, wincing as he lands. 

“Fuck off.” 

“Okay, I’m going to call Ted,” Patrick says, pulling out his phone. 

David cries out when Stevie tugs his jacket open; she swears again. 

“This is so much fucking blood, David,” she tells him, as if he doesn’t know. 

“As if - I don’t know that,” he says out loud, to make sure that he does. 

Her hands are busy prying the jacket off, so she wipes her eyes on her shoulder. She finally gets the jacket off of him and her hands shake over the wound, bleeding sluggishly onto her plaid bedspread. 

David blinks, and it takes effort to open his eyes again. 

“He’ll be here in a minute,” Patrick says, and moves to sit next to David on the bed. He holds David’s hand, even though David’s hand is gross with sweat and blood. 

“David, where’s Alexis?” 

“Fuck off,” he mumbles. 

“No, goddamn it.” Stevie pats his cheek, then tugs his hair to get him to open his eyes. “Where is she? I need you to tell me now before you pass out.” 

“Dubai. No. Riyadh. Call --” He coughs. “Call Saudi Arabia. Prince, um.” 

He can’t focus; can’t pull the name out. Patrick squeezes his hand, his shoulder; Patrick smells nice. Clean. Stevie’s hands shake over the wound…. 

He blinks awake some time later. He’s still on Stevie’s bed, and Patrick is still holding his hand, but he’s leaning against the headboard now, his head bowed in sleep, like he just nodded off. David manages to move his head a fraction to see Stevie talking quietly with some guy he’s never seen before, and the panic is enough to wake him up the rest of the way. 

He yells when he sits up; the pain is _disgusting_. All three of them shout his name and push him back to lay down again. 

“David,” the guy says, looking relieved as hell. “Hi, I’m Ted.” 

“You’re a. Doctor?” David rasps. 

“A vet,” Ted says, grinning dimples. David sends his eyes up to Patrick, who doesn’t even have the sense to look guilty. 

“A vet,” David repeats. 

“I thought you were going to die,” Patrick says roughly. “And Ted….” 

“No harm done,” Ted says cheerfully. “Well. I mean. Obviously, you’ve had harm done. You really should rest for a few days at least. But I won’t tell anyone.” 

David looks at Stevie, who stares back with red watery eyes and chews on the sleeve of her flannel. 

“I’ll kill you if you do,” David says finally. He tries to swallow but it’s like all the saliva has been drained out of him. “Could I have some water, please?” 

“I’ll get it,” Ted volunteers. Stevie stares at David for a few seconds longer and then goes to help Ted locate a glass. 

“Thanks,” David mumbles to Patrick. Patrick swallows and nods, his eyes red and his lips cracked. 

“How often does this happen, David?” 

“Getting shot?” He shifts his shoulders to be more comfortable. “Once in a while.” 

“I can’t do it.” 

“What?” 

“I can’t do this.” Patrick pulls his hand back and gets up. “I -- fuck, I’m sorry, David.” He rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms, and David is having a really fucking hard time processing. “I am. I just -- I can’t.” 

“Patrick --” 

“Bye, David.” 

Ted explains to Stevie who explains to David the extent of it: the upshot of it is, he really needs to not move for a few days. 

Stevie refuses to let him leave her apartment, so he sleeps on her bed, and she curls up next to him. It reminds him of when he and Alexis were little, when she would get scared in the middle of the night and come into his room because their parents were all the way on the other side of the house, unreachable in more ways than one. 

Stevie comes and goes; she sleeps, she gets food, she goes to help her aunt’s tenants fix their sometimes gross, always annoying problems. She brushes his hair from his face. She doesn’t ask why Patrick left. 

David sleeps. 

“Do you think he told anyone?” David asks Stevie a week later. He’s finally back at work, trying not to think about whether it even mattered that his store was closed for a week, or about how rent on the lease is due in ten days. 

“Who, Patrick?” Stevie wrinkles her nose. “No. Of course he didn’t.” 

“How do you know?” 

She waves a hand around. “Do you see anyone here to arrest you?” 

“Still.” 

“David, what did he say to you?” she asks carefully. “I called him and all he said was that he was out.” 

“That’s basically it,” David says, staring at his hands. He’d had to clean a spot of blood off one of his rings last night, and he wasn’t even wearing them when it had happened. “He just said he couldn’t do it.” 

He feels Stevie staring at him, reading something on his face he can’t see in the mirror. 

“You should call him,” she says finally. 

“He doesn’t want to hear from me.” 

“It was a tense situation. He’s had some time to think about it; he might feel differently now.” 

“Differently how?” he bursts. “Stevie, I’m not changing. I’m not stopping. I might get shot again, or die, or --” He cuts himself off as she blanches. “I’m sorry. But it’s true. It’s the only time I -- I can’t stop.” 

“I know,” she says, more firmly than she looks. “David. I know. And I-I’m here. I will be here. But I can’t do it alone, and he really did help.” David scoffs. 

“He called a vet.” 

“Who dug a bullet out from between your ribs and sewed you back up and here you are, bitching to me, healthy as a horse.” 

“Ew.” 

The bell above the door dings and they both look over. Patrick, in a pale blue sweater this time, walks in from the street hesitantly. In his periphery, David sees Stevie try and fail to repress a smile and he silently curses her existence. 

“Hi, David. Stevie.” 

“Patrick,” Stevie practically sings. David stares at Patrick staring back at him. “Well. I’ll get out of the way.” David tears his gaze back to her. 

“What?” 

“Call me tomorrow,” she says, and tugs Patrick’s sleeve as she walks by. 

“Bye,” David says faintly, feeling like he’s on the wrong side of a plan. 

“So. Um.” Patrick rubs the back of his neck. “I owe you an apology.” 

“You really don’t.” 

“No. I do. It was… a hard night.” 

“I know,” David says softly. Patrick flicks a smile at him, and David feels himself smile back. His shoulders loosen; he hadn’t even realized how tightly he was holding them. 

“Want to go for a walk? Or do you have to be here?” 

“It really doesn’t matter,” David admits. “Sadly enough. I’m probably going to be evicted soon, anyway.” 

“Oh, that reminds me.” Patrick hands over the store’s book, tearing a sticky note off the front and crumpling it. “I didn’t know if I’d have to leave this with Stevie or something.” David shakes his head. 

“I’m here.” 

“Right.” A smile grows on Patrick’s face. “Good. Well, put that away, and come with me.” David does, and when he asks where they’re going, Patrick just says, “Just trust me, David,” and god help him, he does. 

“So, how are you?” Patrick asks, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. 

“I’ve been better,” David says, allowing a smile. “But, you know, I’m alive. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” Patrick smiles softly at him and points around the corner for them to start heading uptown. “How’s Alexis?” 

“She’s fine. Seeing someone,” he warns, in case that’s what Patrick’s after. Patrick just smiles. “She’s dating one of the Chrises, mostly just to get back at Stavros for ditching her, I think.” 

“Good for her.” 

“If only we could all revenge-date celebrities. The world would be a better place.” 

Patrick laughs. “More satisfying, maybe.” 

David swallows, and explains the thing he’s only talked about while high with Stevie. “He dumped her when we lost our money. My dad owned Rose Video, and one day out of the blue his business manager stole it all.” 

“Oh my god, David.” 

“So we lost the money, our house, my gallery, everything. We had to move into this dingy little motel because that was all we could afford on my unemployment and it looked like we were never getting out, so I tracked him down. Eli. And I made him give back what he hadn’t spent or siphoned off already.” David chances a glance at Patrick, who just looks… sad. “So. That’s the story.” 

“I’m so sorry that happened to you. So that’s why --” Patrick mimes aiming an arrow. David nods. “I can’t say I know what that felt like, or what you’ve been through,” Patrick says, holding David’s gaze, and David feels… he feels like there’s this big heavy thing between them, a camping cooler of all of David’s bullshit, and finally there’s someone picking up the handle at the other end. “But I know what it’s like to have something change literally everything about your future. I know how hard that is. And I think, mortal danger aside, you seem to be doing pretty well.” 

David laughs wetly and blinks hard, tilting his head back to clear the tears threatening to form. 

“So, um. Are you coming back?” 

“I don’t think so, David.” 

“Uh huh,” David manages around the lump in his throat. 

“I’m sorry. I just don’t think I realized that you’re literally putting your life at risk, and I don’t think I can just sit and listen to you die. That was… awful.” 

David forces a smile and nods. He wishes so much that he’d just stayed behind in the store, or that a cab would jump the curb and knock him out, or that the government would drop a million dollars in his bank account and he could just peace out like Alexis, who unlike him never seems to need a lot of money to get people to stay with her. 

“I’d like to still be your friend, though,” Patrick continues. David thinks he nods. “And business partner, maybe?” 

“Sure,” David says, even though he knows that he might see Patrick once more after today before he stops hearing from him, and maybe not even that. 

“So I had an idea.” 

David looks at him finally, realizing where they’re headed: Union Square, packed with tourists and -- food stalls? He shoots a confused look at Patrick, who grins and pats him on the back. 

“The Greenmarket,” Patrick says, as if that means something to David. “The farmer’s market? It’s here every Saturday?” David gives him a look and Patrick shakes his head. “You’ve lived here for how long and you’ve never been to the Greenmarket?” 

“Okay, thank you,” David says with false cheer. Patrick laughs. 

“Come on; I want to introduce you to someone.” 

Patrick leads him into the throng of people who actually mostly look normal, and not crunchy granola stereotypes David was half-expecting. They pass booths filled with three or four different types of leafy green and reddish-green lettuce, pale yellow and shiny green zucchini, dark purple grapes with bees humming around, and some frankly gorgeous bursts of colorful flowers. 

Patrick takes his elbow and leads him past a particularly attractive red-orange orchid with a knowing look, which makes David’s face heat up, for some reason. 

“I’ll buy you one if you’re good,” Patrick whispers in his ear; David shivers. Patrick winks and pulls him to the next stall, which has all kinds of berries in little cartons and a dark-haired woman helping customers with what look like homemade oatmeal craisin cookies. 

She hands the couple some change and waves at Patrick. 

“Patrick! Come on; try one of our blackberries. Best in the market,” she adds, winking at David. 

“Hi, Carmen,” Patrick says happily, going around the back of the stall to give her a hug. “This is the friend I was telling you about: David Rose.” 

“David Rose! Try a blackberry.” 

He tentatively picks one from a carton and pops it in his mouth; it bursts on his tongue, juicy, sweet and tart. Carmen grins at him. 

“Right? Excuse me, fellas. Hi, how can I help you?” she greets another couple. “Try a blackberry!” 

“Carmen’s family owns a farm upstate,” Patrick explains. “Apparently their blackberries are award-winning this year.” 

“They’re really good,” one of the other customers tells David. “I swear, your berries are the only reason I come to this thing every week,” they tell Carmen, who flips her hair in a move that reminds David viscerally of Alexis, but Carmen grins like she’s in on the joke. 

“So it’s not just the blackberries?” David asks, eyeing the bright red strawberries. 

“They’re all perfect,” Carmen promises, taking a ten from a customer in exchange for three cartons of berries and a cookie. “Exactly the way God intended them to taste.” 

“So I was thinking,” Patrick says, “that if Carmen is looking for more distribution, she might be able to edge in on the crowd too pretentious for the market by selling to you in bulk to stock in your store.” 

“And my cousin makes scarves and blankets and things,” Carmen adds. “Teresa. She’s been selling on Etsy but they take such a big cut and she doesn’t have time to keep up with the sales admin now that she’s back in school.” 

“So. What do you think?” 

“I... think that sounds amazing,” David breathes. “That would work?” he asks Patrick, who nods. 

“Obviously, I can’t promise anything,” Patrick says, “but I think it could be really good.” 

“Are you sure?” he asks Carmen uncertainly. 

“Hell yes,” Carmen says. “Patrick has my number. Take some blackberries and go away now; you’re crowding out my customers.” 

David looks behind him and is surprised to see people waiting impatiently to get into the booth. 

“Alright; we’ll get out of your hair,” Patrick says. He kisses her cheek, drops a ten in her change tin, and swipes a carton of the prizewinning blackberries. “Come on, David. I promised you an orchid.” 

David follows him dumbly. 

*****

Stevie bangs into his apartment one evening the next week while he’s drinking some hot chocolate at the kitchen table; Alexis hasn’t made an appearance since he came home, but her bedroom door is closed so she’s probably sleeping. 

He probably should be surprised that Stevie can just let herself in, but she has spare keys to all the apartments and they erased most of their personal space boundaries long ago. 

“Alexis woke me up at five this morning,” David complains, blinking up at Stevie. She looks at him with wide eyes and twists her hands, which is so un-Stevie-like that he puts the cocoa down. “What’s wrong?” 

“I did something.” 

“What something?” 

“You know the other transfer Patrick found? The one through the Financial District?” 

“Uh huh.” 

Stevie drops into a chair and steals his mug, but instead of drinking it she just stares into it. 

“Stevie. What about it?” 

“I brought someone else in,” she says in a rush, wincing. 

“Who else?” He’s too tired for this game of twenty questions; he grabs the mug back and puts it out of her reach. 

“My friend Twyla, from the cafe?” 

David strains his memory: brunette, a little too chipper for him, keeps trying to sell him muffins. 

“Muffin girl?” 

Stevie nods miserably. “She’s so good at talking to people, and no one would ever suspect her of anything, so I thought --” 

“What?!” 

“I asked if she’d mind chatting up any guys who seemed, you know, connected.” She makes a hand gesture that he’s pretty sure means something sex-dirty. He frowns and mentally replays the last thirty seconds. 

“I suspect her of everything! _No one_ is that cheerful naturally.” 

“Well, you dress up in a costume and shoot arrows at people on a regular basis, so you don’t count,” she says bluntly. He flips her off. “Anyway, she hasn’t been working for a few days and no one seems to know where she is and I’m worried.” 

“God, Stevie.” David rubs his forehead. “Okay.” 

“We have to find her,” Stevie says lowly. She tucks her long hair behind her ears and spreads her hands on the table in front of her. “It’s my fault she’s in trouble. I’m the one who brought her in. It’s on me.” 

“We’ll find her.” 

“David.” 

“We will, Stevie.” 

“David, you have to call Patrick. You have to bring him back in.” 

“He said he was out.” 

“You have to,” she insists, her eyes welling up, which is so unnerving that David finds himself agreeing to call him. 

Alexis comes out of her room, wearing her floral silk pajamas, and asks what’s going on. 

“Stevie’s friend is missing,” David says tightly, his phone open to his text thread with Patrick, trying to think of how to ask him to do this. 

“Oh, you poor thing,” Alexis coos, hugging Stevie around the shoulders, although Stevie stiffens and doesn’t hug back. “I’m sure they’ll be fine. I mean, I --” 

“Alexis, shut up,” David snaps. “Stevie doesn’t want to hear about the time you almost died in the Australian outback.” 

“Um, David, I was going to tell her about the time with the pirates.” 

David rolls his eyes. “Anyway, we want to try to find her before we bring in the police.” 

“Ew, of course,” Alexis says, wrinkling her nose. She gets up to pull a box of crackers down from the shelf. “I mean, what are they going to do?” 

“Exactly,” David agrees, throwing a hand up. 

“So how can I help?” she asks. 

“Aren’t you going to Tokyo or Sydney or something?” 

“I don’t know,” she says, crackers abandoned on the table, now braiding some of Stevie’s hair. “My skin’s feeling a little dry and I don’t really feel like being on a plane for that long, you know?” 

“Sure,” Stevie says faintly. 

“Okay, whatever. Get dressed and meet us back here in fifteen minutes.” 

To his surprise, Alexis just nods and takes the crackers back to her room. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever get her,” Stevie says, looking at the half-finished braid in her hair. 

“Do you have your laptop?” 

She gestures to her bag, which she must have dropped at the door when she came in. He nods and gingerly reaches over to touch her hand. He’s surprised, again, when instead of pulling her hand back she grabs his and holds on tight. 

They did sleep together once, he and Stevie, back when he and Alexis had first moved in. It had just been the once, and they both agreed they were better off as friends, but he wonders, sometimes, if she’s just as lonely as he is. 

Speaking of: he has to call Patrick. He squeezes her small hand before he gets up and goes to his bedroom to make the call. 

“Hey David,” Patrick says cheerfully. “I was just thinking of calling you. I think we should talk to Carmen about what we want to buy seasonally. CVS is already stocking Halloween stuff, so I thought, like, gourds and squashes and pumpkins might sell well now even though it’s not technically autumn yet.” 

“Sure,” David says quickly. “I have to talk to you about something.” 

“Oh?” 

“Are you alone?” 

“I can be,” Patrick says. David hears a door close on Patrick’s end and firmly refuses to think about what it means that he was with someone else. “What’s going on, David? You’re kind of making me nervous.” 

“Well, join the club.” He takes a deep breath in and out. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I need to talk to you -- to ask you, if you can come help us out tonight?” 

“David, I told you --” 

“And I heard you. I did. But this is different.” 

“Okay,” Patrick says warily. 

“Stevie’s cafe friend is missing.” 

“What? Twyla?” 

“You know Twyla?” 

“She makes me coffee whenever I -- when I’m in the area.” Whenever he’s heading to David’s store. David bites his lip. “Of course I know her. How can I help?” 

“Can you come by? Same building as Stevie, apartment 4D. My, um. Alexis will be here too, so I’ll be -- I’ll just be wearing a sweater.” 

“No arrows,” Patrick interprets. 

“Mm, you do get me.” 

“I do.” 

David smiles helplessly. 

“I should go,” he says reluctantly. “I’ll see you soon?” 

“I’ll be there,” Patrick promises, and David believes him. 

True to his word, Patrick shows up twenty minutes later, with a box of donuts. David perks up from his spot on the couch, where he’s doing his best attempt at a Twitter image search around Twyla’s cafe when her coworkers saw her last. 

“Patrick!” Alexis chirps. She’s doing the same thing on Instagram at the table next to Stevie, and contacting people she knows who spend time in that area, which she volunteered without David needing to ask. “Aren’t you just the sweetest?” She taps his nose and Patrick laughs and sets the box of donuts on the table. 

“Thanks, Alexis. Where can I set up?” 

“There’s an outlet over there near David.” 

Patrick gives her a thumbs-up and brings a donut with him: he gives it to David and then sucks the icing off his fingers before taking his laptop and charger out of his backpack. David feels that stupid swoop in his stomach, the one that says he’s doomed, and he gives him a quick smile in thanks before going back to his feed search. 

When Patrick sits down, the couch dips, and David has to fight not to lean towards him. Patrick opens his laptop, types in his password, and pulls up a program David doesn’t recognize, all with smooth confident movements that David’s fully unable to look away from. 

The donut is delicious, but David barely tastes it; Patrick’s thigh is touching his, warm and solid, and Patrick’s arm, and Patrick -- oh, he is doomed. 

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, scrolling through the feed and clicking random photos to see if he can spot Twyla in the background, breathing in Patrick’s scent. 

“I’ve got something,” Stevie says finally, sounding stunned. 

“What?” 

They all get up to crowd around her laptop. 

“You’re looking into the FiDi transaction?” Patrick asks, his brow furrowed. David glances at Alexis, but she doesn’t ask what they’re talking about. 

“I needed to know who this asshole is,” Stevie says. “Look.” She traces along the screen with her finger as she talks. “I know we said that the IP location was probably meaningless, but I kept thinking, why? Why did they route it through this specific address? And it’s this building on the bull’s left side.” 

Alexis snorts. “Is that the bull with the big brass --” she cuts herself off at David’s look. “Sorry.” 

“Right. So who likes to think of himself as having the bull as his right-hand man?” 

“What…” Patrick says slowly. “No.” 

“Who?” David asks impatiently. Alexis’s jaw drops open and she pulls out her phone, searches something quickly, and holds it out to David: _Grab the bull by the horns!_ a cheerful red slogan reads above the face of some random 50s white guy. _Vote Beau Walker 2020_ , it says underneath. “Who the fuck is this?” 

“Beau Walker?” Stevie says, like David’s the only dumb one here. He rolls his eyes and fights the urge to walk away. “He’s running for mayor? He’s a city council member for part of Brooklyn.” Something pings in David’s mind. 

“I was going to go to Tokyo with his son,” Alexis says quietly. “This weekend. I didn’t go because he took Albany with him instead.” 

“I thought you said it was because your skin was dry.” 

“Shut up, David. Obviously, I lied.” 

“Okay,” Patrick interrupts. “Okay, so -- so we’re saying that Beau Walker, the guy who’s rebuilding some of the lowest income blocks of Brooklyn, is -- what? Running a payday loan scheme through the Russian mob? And he abducted Twyla?” 

“I know it sounds crazy,” Stevie says. “I’m right. David, I know I’m right.” 

“Albany’s dad is in construction,” Alexis says. “He’s doing a lot of those rebuilding projects.” _Gentrification_ , David’s brain supplies. Planned gentrification? What else; there was something -- 

“Wait,” David says. He pulls out his phone and scrolls back up the feed he’d been looking at before he got distracted by Patrick’s… everything. “Here.” He holds out his phone with the image of a man who looks a hell of a lot like Beau Walker heading away from the cafe with a petite brunette whose face is turned away from the camera. He enlarges the image and it’s blurry but he thinks he can make out apron strings around her waist. 

“That could be her. Oh my god, David,” Stevie says, growing a little hysterical. “That could be her! We have to go. You have to go!” 

David glances at Alexis, whose face is pale and serious. 

“Do whatever you need to do,” she says. “Do you need anything from me?” 

“Not right now.” 

She nods. “Okay. I’m going to go to my room and shut the door to do some research. You guys do your thing.” 

It’s so uncharacteristic of her that he has to ask: “Are you sure?” 

She kisses his cheek and squeezes Stevie’s hand. “I’m sure. Let me know if I can help.” He watches her go and shut the door behind herself. 

“David,” Stevie says urgently. “Get dressed.” 

David looks to Patrick, who nods. “I’ll help Stevie narrow down a location.” 

“Thank you,” David says softly, as meaningfully as he’s capable. Patrick’s mouth twitches a smile. 

This time, when he’s pulling on his outfit, he’s not worrying over what Patrick will think. There’s just the mission. Just Twyla. He pictures her alone, chained up with old-fashioned manacles in a damp basement somewhere, and shakes his head to get rid of the image. 

When he comes out of the bathroom, Stevie and Patrick are conferring over her laptop, but they both look up. 

“He has a big place out on Long Island,” Stevie says. 

“His son is on a flight to Tokyo with Alexis’s friend and his wife is in Vegas with some Real Housewives,” Patrick tells him. “Walker’s at a campaign event in Manhattan. There shouldn’t be anybody in that house, but it’s pulling from the power grid.” 

“How sure are we?” David asks, looking between them. 

“David,” Stevie says. “Go.” 

He nods and pulls his hood up. 

“Tell Alexis I’ll be back late.” 

“We will. Don’t you fucking dare take that earwig out again.” 

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” David retorts. She rolls her eyes and shoves him. He looks at Patrick, who nods, and he grabs his gear. 

“If I die on the LIRR, do me a favor and lie at my funeral,” he mutters under his breath an hour later. He’s riding the train this time, because Nassau County is so fucking far away from Brooklyn, and even though he’s in his outfit it doesn’t even matter because everyone else is both drunk and shouting and literally not one person on this train cares who he is. He hears someone barf at the front of the car and gags. “God, just kill me now.” 

“Shut up,” Stevie says. 

“Okay, David, Alexis has a friend whose brother lives out there,” Patrick says, his voice calm and patient in David’s ear. “He’s done a driveby and says that there are no lights on, but he hears a banging noise coming from the basement.” 

“So Walker’s just going full stereotypical creep.” 

“Yeah. And I pulled the floor plans from the county: there’s a back door that leads from a patio into the kitchen and a second door with a staircase that leads directly down to the basement. The second door is the one on the left, on the side of the house away from the patio.” 

“Got it.” 

The train mercifully pulls into Hempstead before anyone else throws up, and before the girls shouting a few rows in front of him actually start fistfighting. He slips off the train in the middle of the crowd, his head down to avoid the cameras, and follows Stevie’s murmured directions through the streets. 

The house isn’t difficult to get to, although it is a little more difficult to find in that it looks practically identical to the other proto-mansions on the block, and he can’t exactly go door-to-door checking house numbers. He has to trust in Stevie’s GPS that he’s at the right one when he slinks into the backyard and picks open the door on the left. He listens for a minute and hears a dull clanking noise, like metal on a pipe. 

“Going in,” he whispers. 

“Copy.” 

The stairs are old and wooden and creak with every step. The clanking stops. 

“Twyla?” he whispers, holding his bow and arrow at the ready. 

“Hello?” he hears someone whisper back. 

“Twyla, it’s me,” he hisses. “Caramel macchiato, skim, two sweeteners, cocoa powder. Are you alone?” 

“Yes. Is that your code name? Are you in disguise?” she asks curiously. 

He turns the corner and steps into the basement, which is cool and damp and just as sad as he was expecting. Her hair is greasy, her face dewy, and her dress dirty, but otherwise she looks fine, thank god. She’s only handcuffed to a water pipe with one wrist, but when he comes closer, he sees the HOT WATER caution tape. 

“Why?” he groans. 

“I think it was so I wouldn’t try to get free,” she says matter-of-factly. “Do you have a saw or something?” 

“I have a lockpick,” he answers, pulling it from his pocket. “Don’t worry. I’m going to get you out of here and you’re going to be fine. Rosebud, I have her. She’s fine.” 

“Oh, is that Stevie?” Twyla asks, watching him pick the handcuffs intently. 

“We should move quickly,” he tells her, deciding not to answer that here. 

“Bring her back to mine,” Stevie says. “And make sure you’re not followed.” 

David’s a little concerned about Twyla’s energy, but she insists she can walk, so they head out through the dark side streets to a different station than David came from. He digs out a granola bar from his jacket and encourages her to eat it while they wait for the train as he watches for a tail. 

******

David drops Twyla off at Stevie’s apartment to debrief and then makes his way back up to the fourth floor. To his surprise, Patrick is still there, watching a muted baseball game on the television with his laptop open on the couch next to him. 

“Saw you coming,” Patrick says with a smile, pointing at the GPS dot blinking on the screen. 

“It’s late,” David says nonsensically. 

“Alexis went to bed a little while ago. I just.” Patrick looks at his hands and huffs a wry laugh. “I needed to see you.” 

“Oh.” David puts his bow and quiver in his duffel, and, kneeling next to Patrick, slides it under the couch. 

“David.” 

He looks up at Patrick, who stares back with wide eyes, and realizes what this might look like. For a second all he can hear is Patrick breathing, and he wonders if Patrick can hear his heart pounding, but Patrick’s eyes flick down to his mouth and he knows what happens next. 

David leans in fractionally and Patrick’s lips part; slowly, so that Patrick has time to pull away, he closes the distance between them. 

Kissing Patrick is, truly, a breath of fresh air; his chest fills to bursting, his stomach lifts, and Patrick cradles the back of David’s head to hold him. He opens his mouth and Patrick licks in, pushing closer, inhaling sharply. 

It feels like he’s floating, or like the world is floating around him; all that’s solid is him kissing Patrick, holding him close, the shift of Patrick’s back muscles under the splay of David’s hand, the eager slide of his mouth on David’s, until Patrick pulls away just far enough to rest their foreheads together, his mouth spit-shiny as he catches his breath. 

“Not that I’m complaining,” David says. “But.” 

“That’s what I want,” Patrick says, his voice breaking a little, his eyes pleading. “You are just -- incredible. You saved her life tonight, without a second thought, and all I want is to be part of it. And I know that I can’t choose whether your nights end with Twyla home or with you shot. But that’s what I’m here for. I want to be a part of it, for the happy endings, and to make sure that they happen more often than the bad days.” 

David nods and Patrick’s eyes close. 

“Are you sure, though,” David says quietly. 

Patrick kisses him again. “Yes.” 

When the sun rises, they’re sitting on the fire escape, their legs dangling over the dumpster in the alley four stories down and the box of donuts behind them. Patrick kicks his feet, his arms folded over the lower rail, and David takes another bite of stale donut. 

“There wasn’t anybody keeping watch over her,” David says, breaking the quiet calm of the dawn. 

“I know.” 

“So they didn’t care if we found her.” 

“Or just didn’t think you would.” 

David shakes his head. “Baryshnikov knew we were coming. Walker must’ve known.” 

Patrick rests a hand on David’s sleeve, rolling the fabric between his fingers thoughtfully. 

“I looked up his campaign platform while you were gone. It’s not good.” 

“Rah, rah, white supremacy?” 

“Basically. And the people living in the neighborhoods he ‘rebuilds’ are pretty much forced out when the prices skyrocket. He doesn’t even have to wait that long for some -- if he gets enough people far enough in debt with payday loans, he can just evict them when they can’t pay their rent.” 

“So the only missing piece is the NYPD in his pocket to criminalize people out.” 

“And the power and money at play when you go from councilmember to mayor.” 

“What if he already has the NYPD,” David says slowly, kicking at Patrick’s ankle. Patrick shoots him a quizzical look. “I keep a low profile and I’m not in the press or anything, but people in those circles definitely know I’m out there. What if he’s got enough of the police on his payroll that he knows I exist, and they’ve already started over-policing those neighborhoods for him. I mean, that’s the NYPD’s baseline.” 

“He might not need to pay them if he’s co-opting Baryshnikov’s organization -- I wouldn’t be surprised if Baryshnikov already has cops working for him.” 

“What does Baryshnikov get out of working with him, though?” David wonders out loud. 

“Free license to keep running whatever import/export thing he was getting delivered last time?” 

David shakes his head. “I can’t believe I didn’t know this was going on.” 

“Hey,” Patrick says, nudging at David’s chin until he looks up. “We’ll get him. He’s not going to get away with it.” 

“I don’t want to risk what happened to Twyla happening again. You should have a codename.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, you, and I guess Alexis and Twyla.” 

Patrick tilts his head, and the first golden morning sunshine glints off the stubble that barely shows on his cheeks. David tries and fails to rein in whatever sappy look is on his face; Patrick smiles, pleased, and presses a kiss to his mouth. 

“Codebreaker,” Patrick murmurs. David shakes his head. “What? Why?” 

“Too long.” 

“What’s yours?” 

“Arrow,” David says with an eyeroll. “Stevie is Rosebud. She picked the names.” 

“You softie,” Patrick teases, and kisses him again. “Oh, got it: Indiana Jones.” 

“We have to break up,” David says automatically. “I mean,” he panics, ready to backpedal, but Patrick grabs his jaw and kisses him firmly. 

“Not a chance,” Patrick tells him, his thumb swiping across David’s cheek. The eye contact makes him want to squirm: pleasure and discomfort from how new and intense it is; it’s overwhelming. 

Patrick’s eyes are filled with want; he wants David; he wants something _from_ David; no. David shoves the thought aside with a shake of his head and Patrick strokes his shoulder. Patrick isn’t Sebastien. 

The sun starts to rise, red with the omen of an unseasonably hot day, liquid mercury over the skyline. 

Walker knew he was coming. Walker probably has NYPD on payroll. Walker has resources, goons, money, ambition; would he try to take David out? Would he try anything? Patrick wants something from David; what? There’s Sebastien in his head, again: _You didn’t really believe I wanted to be your boyfriend, did you? How adorable._

“Tell me something,” David begs. _Tell me what you want from me._ “Tell me something true.” 

“I’d never kissed a guy before you.” 

“Oh.” So, sex, then. Better than the other thing. 

“I don’t think I’m ready for -- for sex, yet,” Patrick continues, his mouth set in a straight line like when he’s on the phone negotiating costs with Carmen’s business manager, but he looks at David and he looks scared, almost. 

“Okay.” 

“I want to.” Patrick meets his eyes, determined. His hair is reddish in the morning light. His collar is loose, but his sleeves are rolled up neatly. Maybe, maybe, maybe, he thinks, and hope perks its head up in his chest. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” David hears himself promise, and thinks he might mean it. He takes another stale donut from the box and thinks. 

“I’m doing this new thing,” Patrick explains. He rubs his nose, and David’s eyes follow his wrist, for some reason, and he has to force himself to stop staring at his forearm, his wrist, his hand; David’s never met anybody who inhabits their body so fully and confidently. “I spent a lot of time doing what I thought I should be doing. And one day I just woke up and thought -- none of this means anything to me. That’s why I moved here. That’s why I wanted to join you. I want.” Patrick swallows and faces David head-on. “I want to build a life on purpose.” 

He takes David’s hand and presses his mouth to his palm. David feels like he could start leaking emotion from his face; it’s pouring out of him, building up so violently he could burst. He squeezes his eyes shut to hold it in. 

“You’re not a supervillain, are you?” he asks, before his brain can catch up to his mouth. 

“No, David,” Patrick says, and David can hear his smile, warm and fond. With effort, he opens his eyes, and there it is: Patrick’s smile, bright as the sun rising in front of them. Sunlight glints off of the buildings around them and David can’t look away from that smile. “I’m not a supervillain.” 

“Ew, what?” 

“Hi, Alexis.” 

“What are you guys doing out there?” she asks, sticking her head out the window by the fire escape. Her eyes are puffy like she’s just woken up, giving her an innocent poor-me look, but David knows better. 

“Give me an arrow,” David mutters to Patrick. “I’ll get rid of her.” Patrick laughs and shakes his head. 

“Come on,” he says, pushing himself to his feet. “We have to open the store in a few hours anyway.” 

David yawns and follows him inside. “Patrick,” he says seriously, putting his hands on Patrick’s shoulders, “you’re going to need to get really good at power-napping.” Patrick sighs. 

“If you’re done, I have an idea for your project thing,” Alexis calls from her bedroom. 

“Bye, Alexis,” David shouts back, smiling at Patrick, who sways tiredly. “Tell me in the morning.” 

He guides Patrick to his bed by the shoulders and gently pushes him to sit down before kneeling at his feet. Patrick blinks heavily at him and places a hand on his face, caressing his cheekbone with his thumb, like David’s something worthy of worship like that. David swallows and starts unlacing Patrick’s boots; he pulls them off gently and sets them carefully on the floor before taking his own shoes off. 

“David,” Patrick mumbles. David stands, watching Patrick watching him, and lays down on his side of the bed. Patrick lays on his side next to him and yawns. “Have to go over... store budget.” 

“You _are_ a supervillain.” 

Patrick, drifting off, just smiles. 

*******

Patrick does make him go over the books and even has David buy him tea first. They stop by Twyla’s cafe to check on her and she seems cheerful as ever, although she does drop an enormous wink when she gives them their drinks. 

Alexis arrives at the store while Patrick is walking David through projections of costs and profits based on orders of varying sizes from Carmen, Teresa, and a soap vendor he’s been trying to bring on board. Stevie’s in the back room on her laptop, digging into Walker and trying to figure out a plan. 

“David, I wouldn’t have been so worried about this place if you’d just told me it was a front,” Alexis says, poking at a line of shampoos. 

“It’s not a front, Alexis,” Patrick says quickly. 

“Yes, thanks for being supportive of my fully legitimate business,” David adds. She rolls her eyes and bops his nose. 

“Whatever. Do you want to hear my idea or not?” 

“You’re not a part of this!” 

“David,” Patrick cuts in. “It can’t hurt to hear what she has to say.” David harrumphs and crosses his arms; Patrick smiles. 

“What’s going on?” Stevie asks, coming out of the back room. “What’s the plan?” 

David throws up his hands. 

“This isn’t a vigilante lair!” he says, possibly a little shrilly. “This is my business! What if a customer walks in?” 

“Oh, please, David,” Alexis says with a roll of her eyes. “Anyway, as I was saying: I have an idea.” 

“How do you even know what we’re talking about?” 

“Oh, come on, David,” she says, flapping her hands. “I have an active social life; I’m not deaf and blind.” Stevie raises her eyebrows and David can see her starting to grin; he feels this argument spiraling out of his control. 

“So?!” 

“Also, I may have found your bow and arrows under the couch when I was looking for my lipstick.” 

“Oh, so what you’re saying is that stashing your super-secret superhero gear under the couch wasn’t a brilliant idea?” Stevie suggests. David makes a face at her. 

“How was I supposed to know --” 

The bell over the door dings and they simultaneously look over at the young man entering, his eyes widening behind round glasses. 

“Okay, go, move,” David says to the three of them, shooing them out of his way as he goes to help the kid. 

They talk quietly in the corner while he’s gone, and when he sees the kid out the door with his cloth tote full of bath bombs, Patrick meets his eye and jerks his head; _come over here_. 

“So how do you take down a politician,” Alexis prompts, looking at them with her eyes widened in emphasis. Stevie mimes shooting an arrow. “Valuable input,” Alexis says, “but no, I don’t think that’s the way we want to go. They’re like cockroaches -- shine a light, and they scatter.” 

“Ew.” 

“That’s not how you kill them, though,” Stevie says. “You have to get this industrial-grade spray, and --” 

“Okay, whatever,” Alexis interrupts. “My point is, we expose him.” She pauses as if she’s just dropped a bomb. “We expose him!” 

“What, just tell the New York Post, hey, this guy is gentrifying Brooklyn? That’s not exactly news.” 

“Well, no. Myles invited me to Walker’s campaign gala at their mansion on Saturday. What I’m proposing is that I go, snoop around a little, find some check stubs or whatever it is reporters use.” 

“That’s definitely a plan,” Stevie says skeptically. 

“Absolutely not,” David says firmly. “Ab-so-lute-ly not. You are not going into the lion’s den by yourself.” 

“Maybe she wouldn’t have to,” Patrick says thoughtfully. “Alexis, can you get me and David in too?” 

“What? _You_ are not going.” 

“David. They probably keep records on a local drive. You’ll need me to get them.” 

“But.” David looks at Stevie, who’s frowning. 

“It could work,” she says slowly. “Only if we know for sure that he doesn’t know who you are.” 

“I don’t know how he would. Unless Twyla put it together and told him.” 

Stevie shakes her head. “She didn’t tell him anything. She said he just told her to sit tight and left her there.” 

“Well, I don’t like it.” 

“You don’t have to like it, David,” Alexis says, and he has a sudden flashback to when he was thirteen and she was nine and crying about having to go to school when none of the other girls liked her; in a cracking voice, he’d convince her to put her backpack on, just trying to keep everything together. _You don’t have to like it, but you have to go_. “You just have to trust me. All those stories I tell you? They’re real. That’s experience I have. I can _help_ you.” 

“What if you get hurt?” David asks, his voice small. 

“That’s why you’ll be there,” she says, tugging his sleeve with a smile. “My big brother.” He sniffs and Patrick rests a hand on David’s hip. 

“Wow, genuine emotion,” Stevie says dryly. “That’s my cue to head out. David, don’t worry. I have an idea I need to source some parts for and I’ll talk to Twyla again to see if she remembers anything else about Walker or where she was kept.” 

“I will get you two invites,” Alexis promises, and follows Stevie out, leaving David to Patrick, and Patrick’s hands on his hips. David settles his hands on Patrick’s shoulders, and Patrick gives him that look of want, and David smiles, and kisses him, and kisses him. 

They only get five customers after that, but it’s not a bad afternoon. 

They all meet at David and Alexis’s apartment the night of the gala. They’ve pooled their funds together for a town car, but other than that and the smallness of the apartment, it almost could be any other night during the Rose heyday. 

Alexis hogs the bathroom to do her hair and makeup and coaxes Stevie into letting her curl her hair, too, even though Stevie is staying behind on overwatch, to coordinate them via earpieces, do any research that comes up, and to keep an eye on their surveillance of the area and the police band chatter. 

Stevie comes back out of the bathroom and sits down at her laptop at the kitchen table like everything is normal, but she sways enough to swing her new curls from side to side. David hides a smile and lets Patrick try to straighten his bowtie -- he’ll fix it before they go. Patrick’s hair is curling around his ears, and David can’t resist helping him with the hair gel, so he can run his fingers through it. 

“You’ll do,” he says softly, and Patrick smiles, and in some ways it feels entirely different from the nights he and Alexis would get ready before they lost the money. 

“Okay, Roses!” Stevie hollers. “Listen up.” Alexis swishes out of the bathroom, fixing an earring, and Patrick smooths his jacket. “Here are your earwigs.” She holds out three earpieces and David puts his in before helping Patrick, who makes a considering face at the feeling of it in his ear. Stevie helps make sure Alexis’s is in properly. “Test, test,” she says into her mic. David gives her a thumbs-up and Patrick and Alexis copy him. “Great. Okay. We’re going to use two channels for this. Alexis is on Walker Junior duty and Patrick and David will look for dirt on Senior. When you get there, Alexis, you’re going to distract whoever’s hanging around the door while Patrick deals with the driver so that David can stash his bag in the bushes out front. David, you should not need your gear, but if you need it, use it.” 

“Alexis, don’t make me use it.” She makes a face at him. 

“Okay, now, the floorplan,” Stevie begins, showing them her laptop screen. David tries his best to pay attention. 

The plan works well at first: Patrick chats with their driver, Alexis charms the cluster of people lingering by the front door, and David is able to hide his bag in the bushes in the front of the house without being seen. When he meets Patrick at the door, Patrick takes his hand and they follow Alexis inside. 

She quickly separates from them, making a beeline toward an Abercrombie-looking man, whom David recognizes as Myles Walker, and his identical-looking pair of friends. He and Patrick take flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and start making rounds of the rooms. 

“David, stop looking at Patrick’s butt and let me get a look at some faces,” Stevie says sharply. He feels his face flush and Patrick coughs on a sip of champagne. “Patrick, drink slowly, okay? We do not need you getting drunk.” 

“I’m sorry! I’m nervous,” Patrick hisses. 

David straightens the thick-framed glasses that hold the miniature camera in one arm, which Stevie apparently built from specs off the internet, and tries to inconspicuously pan the room. 

“Okay, good,” Stevie says. “Next room; chop chop.” 

Patrick steers David through the crowd with a hand on his lower back and David pretends to laugh at something he said. 

“Look like you’re having fun,” he says under his breath. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing, David! How are you so calm? Look at all these people! God, is that the governor?” 

“Practice,” David says through a clenched smile. He fucking hopes it’s not the governor; he’s pretty sure Dad met him once or twice and they look enough alike that people they’ve known for decades still comment about it. He does not need to be recognized here. 

They do two laps of every room open to the party before Stevie calls it. 

“Okay guys,” she says, switching into their channel, “Alexis is still suffering through Myles’ attention but she’s gotten some useful stuff. She’s actually scary-good at this. Walker Senior works in the office upstairs in the west wing of the house. Myles says he has a laptop and also a safe, which I’m guessing might have some documents or even a hard drive.” 

“Can you get into a safe?” Patrick mutters through a fake smile. 

“Let’s just hope he doesn’t have top-of-the-line stuff. We are amateur vigilantes, after all.” 

“Rosebud,” Patrick coughs. 

“Right. See if you can sneak upstairs. Let me know if you need me to have Alexis stage some kind of dramatic distraction.” 

Unlike at the Rose mansion, the staircase here is just a staircase in the foyer; no grand sweeping stairs or open balconies. They meander back towards it while speaking loudly of looking for crudites, David casually casting his glance from side to side so Stevie can let them know if someone seems to be paying a little too much attention to them. 

There are a few people lingering in the foyer, so David flags down a waiter carrying another round of champagne and walks him by, letting his voice carry as he proclaims that his sister in the other room would _love_ to try this vintage. He nearly laughs when it works and the room clears as the clump of people faux-casually follow the waiter into the other room, intent on trying the “special vintage” champagne. 

“That was amazing,” Patrick whispers once David rejoins him in the foyer. David gives him a small smile and leads him upstairs, taking care to keep his footfalls light on the carpeted steps. 

“Alright, boys, Alexis has found herself in a conversation with Walker Senior,” Stevie says hurriedly. “I’m going to go deal with that. Try not to need me for the next, like, ten minutes.” 

“Copy,” Patrick says, his eyebrows furrowed. David puts his worry for Alexis out of his mind and peeks into rooms as they pass, looking for an office. 

After several guest rooms and bathrooms, he finally finds one with bookshelves lining the walls and a big polished walnut desk in front of a portrait of someone old and stern-looking. David pulls Patrick into the room and shuts the door. 

“Walker Senior Senior?” Patrick guesses, tilting his head at the portrait. 

“You don’t get to be this rich without a lot of family money,” David says absently, looking for the safe. Patrick sits at the desk and tugs at a drawer underneath. 

“It’s locked. Can you pick it?” 

“See, you’ve got this relationship backwards,” David says, pulling his kit out from inside his jacket. “You’re the Westley here.” Patrick rolls his eyes. David pulls open the drawer and is relieved to see that it does contain a laptop; some bulky ThinkPad number. “Can you get into it?” 

“As you wish,” Patrick quips. David presses a kiss to his temple and goes back to searching for the safe. 

It ends up being behind some fake books. David mutters, “And people call _me_ pretentious.” 

It’s not too difficult to break into and must have more sentimental value than practical; it’s an older model with a dial that ticks just like in the movies, and the code is just Walker’s birthday. 

“Either this guy has no idea what security he needs, or he really doesn’t care,” David comments. There’s a cell phone, a few passports, and a stack of hundreds that David is sorely tempted to take but leaves alone. There’s also a black bricky thing with slots for USB cables and a folder of what looks like coded bookkeeping, both of which he takes. He closes the safe and puts the fake books back before joining Patrick at the desk. 

“What do you think, Jones?” he asks, resting his chin on Patrick’s shoulder from behind. 

“I think you’re right,” Patrick says, frowning. “I think this guy really doesn’t care about security.” 

“I think there’s a paradigm shift that happens when your enterprise gets big enough,” David muses. “At some point, you can’t keep an eye on all the details, and bigger and bigger things slip through the cracks.” 

“Still,” Patrick says, but stops when David holds up a hand; he can’t identify what it was he heard, but he definitely heard _something_ out in the hallway. It’s like he sensed it rather than heard it, but he trusts in that instinct. 

“Put it back,” he mouths, gesturing at the laptop. He heads over to the door, cursing Stevie for not letting him bring his bow and quiver into the party with him, and pictures it sitting useless outside in the bushes. Patrick joins him at the door to listen, and the noise starts to distinguish itself: someone coming down the hallway, footsteps muted by the thick carpet. Patrick must realize a millisecond later, as his eyes widen in panic. 

“What do we do?” Patrick mouths. David holds up a finger, thinking frantically. He looks around the room; nothing looks disturbed. Okay. They just need -- he shoves Patrick against a bookshelf and kisses him -- an excuse. 

Patrick freezes at first and then grabs David’s face, licking into his mouth, hooking a leg behind David’s knee. David moans, half trying to make it believable and half worried that it is. Patrick slouches against the books, making their height difference more pronounced, and rocks his hips up into David’s, grabbing his ass to grind them together. 

“Holy fuck,” David gasps. 

“Yeah,” Patrick breathes, hot and heavy in David’s ear. 

“Five seconds.” 

Patrick moans and runs a hand up inside David’s jacket. Four, David mentally counts. Three. He rocks his hardening erection against Patrick’s. Two. He pulls away fractionally, looks Patrick in the eyes; his pupils are huge, his face flushed. Patrick nods, his mouth open and spit-slick. One. He presses back into him; the taste of the champagne is gone, and he just tastes like Patrick. David bruises his mouth, rocks his hips, dying for closeclosercloser, and the door opens. 

“Jesus Christ,” some guy swears. “Stop. Get the hell out of here.” 

“Sorry,” Patrick pants, standing up straight. David tries to catch his breath and tugs Patrick’s jacket straight again before stepping away from him. Patrick catches his hand and holds tight as David leads them out past the obviously-security guy, bulky and frowning with a telltale bulge at the back of his belt and curly transparent plastic cord in his ear. David feels himself start to giggle and goes with it, laughing as they head down the hallway, and Patrick joins in; Patrick’s hair is curling around his ears again. David wants to put his _mouth_ there. 

They stumble back into the party and David straightens his glasses and feels the blood drain from his face. He grabs Patrick’s arm and whispers at him, “Rosebud.” Patrick looks confused and then his face clears in understanding. 

“The glasses.” 

“Fuck.” 

"Why didn’t she say anything?” Patrick hisses. 

David looks around frantically for Alexis; he needs to get them out of here. You never want to stick around for long after you’ve been marked by security, even if they don’t know for sure what you’re doing. 

“She was probably watching.” 

As if on cue, Stevie opens the channel: “Well, hello, boys. Good time?” 

“You pervert,” David says, still craning his neck. 

“You did get it, right?” 

David pats over his jacket pocket, where he’d stashed the hard drive, and his stomach, where the file folder is tucked into his belt. 

“Got it.” 

“Great. Nice job. Alexis is barely holding Myles and the wonder twins at bay in the courtyard, if you feel like rescuing her.” 

David tugs Patrick through the crowd by the hand with a brief stop for an appearance by the front door, which is propped open for the smokers gathered just outside. He remembers a door heading out to a patio from the kitchen, and they nearly make it without being waylaid. 

“So, you’re the shitbird,” a deep voice says casually as they enter the kitchen. Adrenaline skyrockets but David keeps his face still as he pivots to look at Walker sitting on a stool at the kitchen island. “Sorry; I didn’t know your name. It’s just what my friend calls you. But you’re David Rose, aren’t you?” David doesn’t react even as Patrick’s hand tightens in his. “I recognize the eyebrows,” Walker says kindly, as if in explanation. “Your sister is outside entertaining my son, I believe.” 

“Fuck, David,” Stevie says in his ear. 

“I don’t know what you’re here for,” Walker says, examining a mini-quiche from a platter waiting to be carried out, “but I can assure you that you won’t find it.” 

“Fuck,” Stevie repeats. “I’m calling the cops on the party; there should be a good distraction in seven to nine minutes.” 

“We’re just enjoying the party,” Patrick says, apparently ignoring David squeezing his hand in a death grip. 

“Yes,” David says tightly. “My sister invited us as guests of Myles’.” 

“Well,” Walker says, nodding at a waiter to take out the quiche platter, “I’m sure you’ll understand if I invite you to leave early. You’ll miss the mini creme brulees, but I’m sure your cook makes them for you all the time -- oh, wait. You don’t have one anymore, do you?” 

Walker could even be handsome, in the right light; his hair is salt-and-pepper but thick, and his jawline is still firm. He’s closer in height to Patrick than to David, but by no means has he let himself go. In another life, David would be happy to be picked up by him in a bar. 

Walker gestures over David’s shoulder and two security goons come into the kitchen; another shepherds Alexis in from outside. She looks entirely unruffled, but then again, this isn’t her first time being escorted by security. 

“Sven, Richard, please see to it that our guests make it to the door safely.” 

David smiles tightly and resists the urge to grab Alexis’s hand to pull her to him. 

“And, of course,” Walker continues as the goons herd them out, “you will be searched before you are allowed to leave.” 

“Ew,” Alexis says, a forced smile on her face. If he hadn’t known her, he wouldn’t even notice the tightness around her eyes. 

“Three minutes out,” Stevie says in their ears. David tries to stand up straight and keep his dignity while being essentially thrown out of the party; it’s not the first time for him, either, but it’s never a pleasant experience. 

Sven and Richard and Alexis’s goon stop them in the foyer and start to pat down Patrick without a word, ignoring his protests. They then move on to David, and he holds his breath as Sven runs his hands down David’s middle. Patrick holds his gaze steadily until it’s over. 

They move on to Alexis and are running their hands along the back of her silk gown when five or six cop cars come screaming into the driveway, sirens blazing. 

“What the fuck,” Richard says, letting go of Alexis, who straightens her dress and hmphs after him. 

“Thank you, Rosebud,” David says under his breath. 

He reaches behind the overcrowded planter by the door, grabs the file folder from where he’d stashed it earlier, and tucks it back into his pants. Patrick fishes out the hard drive from underneath some leaves and puts it in his pocket. 

“Okay, let’s go,” David says. “Alexis, can you make a scene over there while I get my bag?” 

“Copy,” she says, more firmly than she looks, and marches outside. She heads in the opposite direction of his bag and starts shrieking about her diamond bracelet going missing; while the cops are all looking her way, deciding whether it’s worth it to get involved, David pulls his bag out of the bush and holds it behind himself and Patrick as they shift into the shadows. 

“Great work, everyone,” Stevie says, sounding relieved. “Alexis, whenever you’re done, head down to the end of the driveway. Boys, head a block over -- there will be an Uber at Maple and First in two minutes. Pretend you’re coming from a house over there and stop by here to pick her up.” 

“Copy,” Patrick says, and he and David walk off hand-in-hand into the night amid a backdrop of blue and red lights flashing with the sound of Alexis’ dramatic screeches. 

********

Alexis spends the next few days holed up in her bedroom, and David leaves her to it. Stevie is working and trying to interpret the folder’s contents, and David hardly sees her, either. 

Patrick, however, he sees every day at the store, albeit for short stretches of time. Patrick brings his laptop in and sets up in the back room and sometimes when David looks in on him he’s working on the hard drive, but sometimes he’s working on the store’s books. He mutters to himself and runs a hand over his hair until it’s practically standing straight up, and David brings him tea and crullers from Twyla’s cafe with almost pathological frequency. 

He finds himself nearly saying, “You don’t have to --” but, every time, there’s a customer who needs help and he never quite manages to say it. He’s selfish, he knows, keeping Patrick here instead of giving him the out. 

He’s folding a scarf for a customer when Patrick comes out of the back room and says, “I’ve got it,” with the same weary satisfaction Adalina used to have after making it through a night when Alexis had a fever. David finishes up and goes to meet him in the back, which has printed and handwritten loose papers everywhere, Patrick’s laptop, two phones, and a calculator. 

“I had to call a guy for help, but I used a burner,” Patrick explains. He runs a hand over his hair again and David’s not quite sure what to say. “I got in. I got it. He’s an idiot, we were right: he kept records in a freaking Excel spreadsheet. The banking software was a little more sophisticated.” 

“But you got it.” 

“I got it,” Patrick says with a tired grin. “He’s been planning this for a long time, judging by how far back the payments go. I almost wonder if the mayor thing is just an ego trip, the cherry on top of the whole corruption sundae. In the past year, he’s been making payments to Baryshnikov, Hennessey and a bunch of other payday loan sharks across the city, some NYPD, construction firms, and fucking BP Oil.” David wrinkles his forehead. “I don’t even know. I think the Russian IPs just popped up because he used Baryshnikov’s network, and basically just copied how the Bratva do things, down to the coding. Because he’s a moron.” 

“Well,” David says, failing to press down on his smile, “you’ve certainly earned your paycheck this week. Maybe even dinner tonight.” 

“Lucky me,” Patrick says, tilting his head back to look up at David. “I have news there, too.” 

“Ben and Jerry’s for dinner,” David suggests with a hopeful smile. 

“You need a vegetable, David. No. About the paycheck, I, uh. I invited Carmen and her business manager to come by and go over some papers to commit to the projected orders we talked about last week.” 

“Oh.” It’s not what he was expecting, but maybe they could use some good news. Maybe they deserve it. “Does that mean… we can pay the rent next month?” 

“I hope so. I also hope it means you can start paying me for real once there’s a steady stream of income. I mean, if that’s what you still want. If not, I should probably start looking for a job.” 

“No. I mean, yes. Please. Stay.” David swallows and presses his thumb into the palm of the opposite hand, but Patrick’s smile grows and the panic fades. 

“Okay.” 

“Okay,” David echoes, smiling back, and leans down to kiss him. Patrick pushes the chair back from the desk and pulls David down onto his lap; David straddles his legs and sinks into him, Patrick’s mouth and hips and hands surrounding him, pulling him in. 

Instead of building momentum, though, Patrick slows down, seeming content to rub David’s back in a way that actually feels very nice. David strokes the hair at the back of Patrick’s head and wonders if he can just close up early and take him home. 

“Carmen should be here in a few minutes,” Patrick mumbles. 

“Do you want to head back to mine to sleep? I’ll meet you there when I’m done here,” David offers. 

Patrick shakes his head. “I like Carmen, but I don’t trust you to not get talked into numbers more favorable to her.” 

“Ouch. But also, fair.” 

Patrick smiles and yawns. 

“I just need a cold glass of water and I’ll wake up.” 

“You are a very strange person,” David informs him, but he gets off Patrick’s lap and goes to get him a glass of water. While he’s in the little bathroom off the back room, he hears the bell over the door ding and Patrick’s footsteps heading out into the shop. On his way to follow him, David grabs a box of Thin Mints he liberated from Stevie’s freezer this morning when he bugged her for a cup of coffee. Being a good person is an ongoing process, he muses. 

He comes out into a very weird energy in the shop. Patrick is frozen in front of the counter, facing a redheaded woman with a look of shock on both their faces, Carmen standing off to the side looking as confused as David feels. 

“Patrick?” he asks uncertainly. 

“I don’t believe it,” the redhead says. “Patrick, what are you doing here?” 

“I work here,” Patrick says apologetically. “Sort of.” 

“Um,” David says. “Hi, Carmen.” What the fuck. What the fuck. What -- ? 

“Hi, David. This is, uh, my business manager.” 

“Rachel,” Patrick says. 

“Rachel,” David repeats. 

“I’m sorry,” Carmen says, “do you two know each other?” 

“I thought your business manager was a man,” Patrick says, still staring at Rachel. “Alec?” 

“He moved to California.” 

“Oh,” Patrick says faintly. 

“How are you?” Rachel asks, like, like… like an ex. Jesus Christ, this is Patrick’s ex. David shakes out his hands and blinks hard. This is it, he knows, this is how the story ends: Patrick goes back to the love of his life. He is not going to cry; he is _not_. 

“I don’t think I can be here right now,” he hears himself say. “I’m sorry, Carmen. I’ll call you to reschedule, and I’ll pay your travel expenses.” 

“Sure,” Carmen says, looking back and forth between Patrick and Rachel. 

“That’s it, then,” Rachel says, ignoring them. “Six months ago you asked me for your grandmother’s ring back and then I didn’t hear shit from you for ages and it turns out you’re working here? At a random shop in the city? You have a graduate degree, Patrick!” 

“I’m sorry, what?” David asks, shaking his head, like that’ll dislodge the sound of _your grandmother’s ring_ echoing around his head. “You were… engaged.” 

“What, he didn’t tell you?” Rachel scoffs. “Of course not. Saint Patrick, so perfect he doesn’t _have_ painful feelings, and you’re stupid for having them.” 

“That’s not fair,” Patrick argues. “You’re allowed to feel however you want.” 

“I want?! You think I _want_ to feel like this? Fuck you, Patrick. Six fucking years and you walked away from me without a second thought.” 

“Stop! Do you think that wasn’t painful for me?” 

David’s feet are planted to the floor; he can’t move even though his brain is screaming at him. Carmen hasn’t moved, either, her jaw dropped as she watches her business manager turn incandescent. 

Patrick wipes his eyes with a hand and for a second, despite himself, David’s heart breaks for him, for the look of despair on his face. 

“I did love you, Rach,” he says brokenly. “I do. Just not enough. Not the way you deserve.” 

“Don’t you think I’m the one who gets to decide that?” she asks, her voice hoarse and her shoulders slumping. Patrick takes a deep breath and lets it out. 

“I’m gay, Rach.” 

“You’re what,” she says faintly. 

“I am. And I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you. I’m so sorry.” Patrick rubs his face with a wet sniff and David’s heart breaks again. 

“Hi, um, Rachel?” She looks at him almost surprised to remember that he’s been standing there. “Hi. David Rose. This is my store? Which Patrick actually runs with me. Um, do you think you could come back tomorrow? Just.” He glances over at Patrick, who looks like a strong gust of wind would blow him over. “I think we could all use time to, um. Regroup.” To his surprise, she nods. Carmen shoots him a quick smile and leads her out. The quiet of the shop rings once they’re gone. 

“So,” David starts. He closes his eyes, tries to rein in the mess of feelings trying to pull him in five different directions. He eats a thin mint and it sort of helps so he takes another. “You didn’t mention all that. When we talked.” 

“David, can we talk about this later? Please?” 

David finds himself agreeing, but he closes the shop early and heads home alone. 

Stevie finds him later as he’s shooting arrows at empty seltzer cans set on the edge of the dumpster behind their apartment building. 

“What happened to the secret identity?” she asks, shielding her eyes from the sun. David rolls his eyes. “Ooh-kay. Alexis said you were in a snit about something so I thought I’d come see if you were alright, but if you’re not going to talk to me, I’m just gonna go.” 

“Patrick was engaged.” 

“Ah.” 

“To a woman.” 

“Mhm.” 

“You knew?” 

“He mentioned it in passing. He didn’t tell you?” 

“Not until she showed up at the store this afternoon.” 

“Yikes.” 

“Yeah, it wasn’t great.” David fires at the buttons of a truly ugly upholstered easy chair set next to the dumpster. 

“Nice,” Stevie says approvingly when he hits them. “So what’s this tantrum about? Because from what I can tell, the guy you’ve been dating didn’t always know he was gay, which you already knew, and it is fine and valid that he didn’t know.” 

“He lied to me!” 

“He may have concealed a certain truth,” Stevie allows. “But I don’t think he lied. I think you know him a little better than that.” 

“Do I?” 

“He’s not Sebastien, David. There’s no _gotcha_ coming.” 

David drops his bow arm. “I know he’s not Sebastien. I know that. He’s smart and nice and charming and he cares that things in his life are meaningful and he’s a good person. But that’s worse! Why —“ 

“Why would a guy like that want to be with you?” He nods miserably and she cups his face in her hands. “Love, you doofus.” She pats his cheek. “I’ll deny it if you ever repeat this, but you’re kind of amazing. He’d have to be an idiot not to see it.” She scratches her nose obviously and at first he thinks she’s flipping him off but then he realizes that she’s using her ring finger. 

“Don’t,” he warns, waving a finger at her. She grins. 

“So are you done? Freakout over?” 

He sighs. “Fine. What do you need?” 

“I want to expose him.” 

“Patrick?” 

“Walker, you moron,” she says, and whaps his arm with the back of her hand and he laughs. “And, hey, did you steal my thin mints?” 

When they get up to his apartment door, still bickering, David freezes. Stevie keeps talking for a second until she realizes that he’s stopped; she shoots a questioning look at him and he widens his eyes and holds a finger to his mouth. She nods, her brow furrowed, gets behind him when he motions her to, and hands him his bow. 

He points at his door, which isn’t fully latched shut. 

“Alexis?” Stevie mouths silently. 

David shakes his head; he’s not that lucky. Alexis had said something about going to meet a friend for drinks in the Village and he’s not expecting to see her again until tomorrow at the earliest, if not next week. 

Stevie winces. 

“Walker?” She mimes walking fingers. He listens intently but all he hears is a quiet murmuring. 

He points at her and then back down the hallway: _Go_. 

She shakes her head vehemently but steps back to 4B’s doorway, which is probably the best he can hope for. 

Arrow cocked, David gently pushes the door open, aiming at chest-level as he sweeps into the apartment. 

Walker sits comfortably on his couch, goons standing on either side of him, and -- David feels the bottom drop out of his stomach -- Alexis perched stilly on the armchair, her eyes wide. 

“Oh my god,” Stevie says from over David’s shoulder. 

“What are you doing here,” David says, his voice gone low with anger. “Alexis, get behind me.” 

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Walker says pleasantly. “I just thought I ought to meet the young lady who’s captured my son’s heart. And oh look: I seem to have come across the archer vigilante who’s been terrorizing the pillars of this city.” 

David’s grip tightens on his bow. His senses clarify, everything sharp in the roar of adrenaline. The goons clearly have guns clipped to their hips, and probably secondary weapons too. Unless Alexis can do a gymnastic flip over the back of the armchair, there’s no way he can take down both goons before they can get a shot off at her. He tries to swallow but his mouth seems to have gone dry. 

He knows, standing here, that he’ll never get the image out of his head: Alexis, the little sister who crawled into his bed at night when she was small and scared of ghosts and bullies, sitting up straight and more still than he’s ever seen her, and it’s his fault. 

“What do you want.” 

Behind his right shoulder, Stevie slides her hand into her pocket. Walker, watching David on the edge losing control with a smarmy smile, doesn’t seem to notice. 

“I told you: just a friendly chat.” 

“Friendly chats don’t usually involve multiple guns threatening my sister.” 

“Don’t they?” Walker muses. “My son’s told me all sorts of stories about her. Well. We’re just about done here, aren’t we?” he asks Alexis, whose mouth thins. “I will advise, however, that you stay away from my son. He’s got such a bright future, and I don’t want him tainted by… well. Such a muddy reputation.” 

David growls and aims the arrow at Walker’s eye. 

“What future?” Alexis asks angrily. David shoots her a warning look, which she ignores; of _course_ she ignores it. “How exactly is Myles going to have a future after you’ve ruined half of Brooklyn?” 

Walker’s placid smile twitches, and his eyes spark with irritation. 

“Ruined?” 

“All you build are boring, same-y apartment blocks, which you only get by forcing out the people and culture that are already there, and you don’t care about the lives you ruin in the process. You think anyone wants you to be mayor?” 

“What lives?” Walker leans towards her and -- god love her -- Alexis doesn’t budge. “Tell me, girl. What lives are there? The people who can’t even wait until payday to get their check? They don’t pay it back on time, they owe interest. That’s how it _works_. They can’t pay their rent on time, I evict them. I build safety where there is only poverty. I bring law and order to the lawless! No one wants me to be mayor? I _am_ mayor. They just don’t know it yet.” 

“No,” Alexis says, leaning towards him. David steps forward automatically, still aiming at Walker. “You’re just a sad, sad man trying to make his dead, bigoted daddy happy. And your son is just as selfish and hateful and creepy as you are.” 

Walker lunges and David shouts; Goons One and Two shove Walker aside, whip their guns out and aim them at David, which is fine as long as he’s the only one in the line of fire. He steps sideways into the kitchen, away from Alexis and Stevie, and is satisfied to see that One and Two follow him. 

“Get the fuck out of my apartment.” 

“Gladly,” Walker says, wiping spittle from his chin. He straightens his blazer, staring down at Alexis, who glares back unblinkingly. “I do hope your neighbors didn’t see you with this thing,” he continues, using one finger to tap the shaft of the nocked arrow as he walks by. “It would be a shame if it got out that their neighbor was some kind of maniac.” 

“Get the hell out,” Alexis says furiously. David, muscles still taut with tension, follows Walker and One and Two out the door with his arrow, and then slams the door and flips the deadbolt behind them. 

“The chain, too, please,” Alexis says tiredly. Stevie hooks the chain and slumps to sit on the floor right there. 

“Holy fuck,” she says, her elbows on her knees. “Holy _fuck_.” 

“As if I would actually date Myles,” Alexis says, pulling her legs up on the chair. “He is the _worst_ and his bladder is the size of a pea. It’s _so_ annoying.” 

David sets his bow and arrow on the kitchen counter and presses his hands to his eyes for a second. 

“Alexis? I love you.” 

*********

“Myles’ pea-bladder aside,” David says as they convene around the kitchen table, “what are we going to do?” 

“Next time, you’re actually going to shoot the bastard,” Alexis says. “Why didn’t you? Isn’t that your whole thing?” 

David flails his hands at the armchair. “And let them shoot you?” 

“I can take care of myself, David.” 

“Clearly,” Stevie says, doing something on her phone. 

“I’ll use the arrows when you’re not in the room,” David says firmly. Alexis rolls her eyes and takes a Thin Mint from the package David had left in the middle of the table. She breaks it in half and nibbles on one piece. David wonders, not for the first time, if she’s actually related to him, or even some kind of alien. 

“Eat the whole cookie, you monster.” 

She throws the other half at him and he makes a face at her. Seriously. Not human. 

“I do feel bad about one thing, though,” Alexis says. “Did you notice he never called Myles by his name?” 

“‘My son’ this, ‘my son’ that.” 

“What a sad way to live. As if your child were an object belonging to you.” 

“Don’t tell me you feel sorry for him.” 

“Not a chance,” Alexis says with a snort. 

The doorknob turns against the lock and they all look at it. David reaches for his bow and gets up silently to aim at the door. 

Two knocks, and then a familiar voice: “David? It’s me.” 

“Oh, thank god,” Stevie says in one breath, slouching in her chair. 

Not entirely sharing the sentiment, David takes a breath before unlocking the door to let Patrick in. 

Patrick takes one look at him and crashes into a tight hug. 

“God, are you okay?” Patrick asks desperately. “Sorry; I’m sorry,” he says, and lets go of David. “Personal space.” 

“No, I -- it’s fine.” 

“Can you guys just have it out so we can move on?” Alexis asks tiredly from the table. “We have a whole crime syndicate to take down and I wanted to go to Morocco with Caroline tomorrow.” 

“So go to Morocco with Caroline,” David snaps. Alexis gives him the finger. 

“David, I’m sorry,” Patrick says, and fuck, if he cries then David is a goner. “I didn’t mean to not tell you about Rachel, I just… it just never came up, and then I didn’t want to ruin things, and. I just.” 

David nods and rubs his arms. 

“I’m so sorry,” Patrick repeats. 

“I just need to know that you’re sure,” David says quietly. “I need to know that you’re in this, and you’re not going to leave once you realize that it’s not making you happy.” 

“David,” Patrick says seriously, “you make me happy. What we’re building makes me happy.” 

“Walker threatened to out us. So. You might want to take a second to be really sure you’re up for those consequences.” 

Patrick doesn’t waver. “I’m sure.” 

“Well, I have some good news,” Stevie says. “My recording app works.” She presses the play triangle on her phone and Walker’s tinny voice comes out: _I told you: just a friendly chat._ And then David: _Friendly chats don’t usually involve multiple guns threatening my sister_. He grimaces; is that what his voice really sounds like? 

“Oh my god, David,” Patrick says, paling. 

“Oh, awesome!” Alexis says, and they all look at her. “I told you I was meeting some friends,” she says, surprised at their surprise. “I’ve been working on a plan.” 

Alexis’s plan goes like this: she feeds the recording, the financials that Patrick found, and copies of the notes that Stevie managed to decode to a friend of hers that works at The Gothamist. 

And then they wait, and it’s excruciating. 

“I can’t do this,” David says impatiently, tapping his rings on the table. “Find me someone to shoot arrows at,” he tells Stevie, who makes a face. 

“That’s a disgusting attitude and I’m not here for it. Violence is a last resort; we agreed.” 

“I hate it when you’re right.” 

“Okay, Patrick?” Stevie calls. 

“Ssh, he’s asleep,” David hisses. Patrick had finally collapsed on David’s bed and hasn’t moved a muscle in hours. It was pretty cute, actually; he’d face-planted into David’s pillow and sighed and that was the last noise David had heard from him. 

“Go on a date with him.” 

“What, now?” 

“Yes! Get the fuck out of here. You’re driving me crazy.” 

“But what if --” 

“If the article breaks, I’ll text you. It might not even happen until tomorrow morning, Alexis said. Patrick!” she hollers. 

David hears rustling of bedclothes in his room and groans. 

“Ugh, just go. Be happy,” she urges. 

“Yeah?” Patrick asks blearily, poking his head out of David’s bedroom. 

“You’re going on a date.” 

Patrick blinks. 

“With anyone in particular?” 

Stevie rolls her eyes so hard David wonders if they can just pop out. 

“You two deserve each other. Get the fuck out of here, have fun, don’t come back for at least two hours.” 

“You can’t just kick me out of my own apartment,” David complains, letting her shepherd him to his room to change. 

“Uh, I think that’s exactly what I’m doing.” 

“Come on, David,” Patrick says, to David’s surprise. “I want to see one of the neighborhoods we’re trying to protect.” 

“Well,” David says, mentally mapping his outfit, “I guess we can do that.” 

David takes him to one of the neighborhoods that Walker has planted with payday loan places, cops on half the street corners, and construction equipment sitting ominously in a vacant lot. Patrick looks interestedly in the store fronts they pass by, examining nearly every restaurant menu they see, until he stops and says decisively, “This one.” 

“Oh, no.” 

“Yes, David.” 

“No, no, no.” 

“I earned dinner, remember?” Patrick says, grinning, walking backwards into the restaurant. 

“Anywhere else,” David pleads, unable to resist smiling back. “We can’t have our first date somewhere that sells chicken wings. It’s undignified.” 

“Table for two, please,” Patrick tells the hostess happily. 

“Do you know how much this sweater cost?” David asks, following them to a table by the window. “I’ll give you a hint: it should not be in the same room as finger food.” 

“What, like mini-quiches?” Patrick asks innocently. David kicks his ankle under the table. “Do you have a hot wing sample platter?” Patrick asks the waitress with a sunny smile. 

“Sure,” she says, bored. “Anything else?” 

“I’ll have whatever’s on tap.” 

“I don’t suppose you have a cabernet?” David asks hopefully. 

“Uh. We have a house red, if you want.” 

“Oh, god. Okay, sure.” 

“So,” Patrick says, once they’re alone. “I sent a drafted agreement of the numbers we talked about to Carmen and she said she’ll come by to sign tomorrow.” 

“Sent it to Carmen,” David repeats. 

“Yeah,” Patrick says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I talked to Rachel and we kind of had it out. I think we needed to.” 

“And how did that go?” David asks, not sure if he really wants the answer. 

“Okay, actually. She’s a really good person, David. And I think she gets it, now, why we never worked. And, um. I told her about us. You and me.” 

“Oh.” 

“She said she’d love to meet you, like, for real.” 

“I’d like that,” David says, not sure he means it until it’s out there. He really would, actually, he realizes. 

The waitress comes by to drop off their drinks and they fall quiet, watching people out the window go about their lives. 

David’s mind wanders; he wonders how long it’s going to take for Alexis’s friend to fact-check everything they found. Patrick nudges David’s foot and smiles. 

When the wings come, they’re at least on a platter and not in a plastic bucket, but that’s as optimistic as he can go. He curls his lip at them and informs Patrick, “I will be eating these with a knife and fork.” 

“Fine by me,” Patrick says cheerfully, and takes a wing. “So since we’ve already exhausted all the usual first date topics, what do you want to talk about? And I’m putting a moratorium on night job talk.” 

“Ugh, fine. Okay.” David carefully cuts chicken from bone and tries it; the heat is really good, a slow burn that builds. “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you want to go?” 

“Here,” Patrick says immediately. 

“Okay, no, it has to be a real answer.” 

“Anywhere with you.” 

“A real answer!” David repeats, throwing a napkin at him. 

“Okay, fine,” Patrick says with a laugh. “I’ve never been to Europe. I’d like to see Italy. Where’s your favorite place to go?” 

“Tokyo,” David says immediately. “Cherry blossom season.” 

“Noted.” Patrick smiles softly, looking up at David through his eyelashes, and David’s heart somersaults. 

The waitress comes by to top off their water glasses and pulls out her phone when it dings with an alert, which strikes David as incredibly unprofessional. She reads it and rolls her eyes. “Duh,” she mutters, and walks away. 

Generally David wouldn’t give it a second thought, except… other phones are dinging, too, and the low-level din of the restaurant starts to rise as people read aloud to each other from their phones. 

“Oh my god,” he says under his breath, digging his phone out of his pocket. “Patrick.” 

His phone buzzes as he unlocks it with a text from Stevie: _its happening_. 

“Oh my god!” 

“Breaking: Mayoral Candidate Beau Walker Linked to City-Wide Corruption Scandal,” Patrick reads from his phone. “Linked to?” he says, frowning. “He orchestrated it!” 

“This is amazing,” David breathes, looking around. Even outside on the sidewalk, people are frowning at their phones. Poetically, there are Walker campaign posters plastered on a notice board on the other side of the street, and one of the waiters turns the restaurant TV to Spectrum News NY1 and dials up the volume. 

“Documents have come to light that implicate Beau Walker, the top candidate for the 2020 mayoral race, in a corruption scandal that may rock the city to its core,” Errol Louis is saying. “The Gothamist has obtained exclusive documents indicating that he has orchestrated not only a payday loan scheme targeting low-income neighborhoods, but that he has also been paying off NYPD officers to criminalize New Yorkers in those neighborhoods in an effort to ‘rebuild’ parts of Brooklyn for his profit. We have independently confirmed much of this reporting and have reached out to his team for comment. Stay with us; we’ll be back after this break.” 

“It’s a start,” David says, and looks over to Patrick, who has a strange look on his face. Patrick lunges across the table, getting sauce on his sleeve, and grabs David’s face in a hard kiss. 

“I am so in awe of you,” Patrick says seriously, and David flushes. 

“I didn’t actually do anything,” he says uncomfortably. “You and Stevie found the records, and Alexis leaked it. I mostly just --” 

“No,” Patrick interrupts, and kisses him again before sitting back down. He holds onto David’s hand tightly. “This is you. None of this would have happened without you. You are…” he trails off and shakes his head. “You took the pain of what your family went through and this is what you did with it. You’re amazing.” 

“...Russian mob,” someone says at the table next to them. “I mean, I’m not surprised; the guy’s skeevy as hell.” 

“David,” Patrick says suddenly, paling. “David, your phone.” 

“What?” 

“David, turn off your phone.” 

“What? Why?” 

“David, just --” Patrick cuts himself off and looks out the window as if searching intently for something, and starts speaking quickly. “Baryshnikov. Walker is using Baryshnikov’s infrastructure. He had GPS tracking software on the laptop. I assumed it was just how Baryshnikov was tracking his shipments, but if Walker’s using it, and he knows who you are -- David,” he says sharply. “Turn off your phone. Now.” 

“What the fuck,” David says to himself, but he does it. Patrick pulls a number up from his contacts and dials. 

“Rosebud,” he says without a greeting, “can you see where Walker is right now?” 

“In the clutches of the FBI, with any luck,” David mutters. He remembers how it was when the revenue agency were tearing through the Rose mansion, upending everything, and feels a mean thrill of satisfaction imagining the same thing happening at the Walkers’. 

“She’s pinging his phone with no response,” Patrick says to David. “David, we need to move.” 

David nods and his hands clench at empty space; his bow and quiver are back at the apartment. 

Patrick pulls cash from his wallet and drops it on the table as David gets up, and they hurry from the restaurant, Stevie still on the phone. 

They barely make it a few yards down the block toward the subway when two black town cars screech to a stop next to them and men in suits spill out, Walker in the middle. 

“You!” Walker screams, his face purple with rage. “You goddamn piece of shit, I will _end you_!” 

Patrick tries to step in front of David but David nudges him aside; Walker won’t shoot in front of witnesses. He hopes. 

A few bystanders stop and stare at the commotion. 

“It’s over, Walker,” David says, his voice low, the same tone he uses with his hood up and an arrow cocked. Walker sneers and advances. 

“You don’t know who you’re fucking with. I have resources you can only _dream_ of in that crappy apartment you’re slumming in.” 

“FBI are on their way,” he hears Stevie say from Patrick’s phone on speaker. 

“You’re done,” David tells Walker, his mind gone clear and still. He gestures to the TV in the restaurant, visible through the window. “Everybody knows now. Even if you avoid prison, no one’s going to vote for you.” 

“ _I will be mayor!_ ” Walker shrieks, his eyes wide and hair mussed, spit flying from his mouth. 

There’s a commotion, now, of people on the sidewalk, staring and muttering to each other. 

“That’s him,” David hears more than one person say. “That’s the guy!” 

Walker seems to hear, too, but instead of stopping him it seems to feed his rage, and he roars and lunges at David; David shoves Patrick aside and takes a defensive stance automatically. 

He rebuffs Walker’s flailing fists and then with a desperate strength Walker gets his hands around David’s throat; Patrick yells and while David gasping scrabbles at Walker’s hands Patrick tugs at Walker’s arms and the crack of a gunshot and Patrick screams and the crowd rushes and David 

blacks 

out. 

“-- hospital --” 

“David David David _please_ \--” 

“Now, Stevie, right fucking --” 

“-- out of here --” 

“Ted --” 

**********

David comes to with a whimper; it feels like his brain is bruised and too big for his skull and angry about it. 

“Oh thank god,” Patrick moans somewhere nearby. “David, can you look at me?” 

He pries his eyes open and grumbles, “No.” 

“Thank you,” Patrick says, his voice thick with emotion, and drops his chin to David’s chest. 

They’re in a small hospital room, it looks like, with a very rumpled Patrick sitting in a very uncomfortable-looking chair at his bedside. 

“I always hoped this would happen,” David mumbles. 

“What?” 

“Dashing young man distraught at my sick bed.” 

“No repeat performances,” Patrick says, his eyes welling up with tears as he smiles. “Hold on, everyone’s getting coffee. Let me go tell them you’re awake.” 

“Happened?” David asks when Patrick comes back. He’s not sure how long he was gone; it’s difficult keeping his eyes open. 

“You hit your head, you giant pain in my ass,” Stevie says, gently punching David’s thigh. 

“Hey, David,” Ted says with a dorky wave. “You got shot again and hit your head when you fell.” 

“What?” 

“You got a bullet in your shoulder. Gotta stop doing that, bud,” Ted says with a grin. “Stevie called me but then we thought you should probably see a human doctor.” 

“No insurance.” David tries fruitlessly to push the sheet down so he can get up. 

“David, I will put it on my credit card,” Patrick says firmly, tugging the sheet back in place. “I’m starting to regret introducing you to Ted.” 

“Hey,” Ted protests. 

“Well, I’m glad you did,” Alexis says, waving her wrists, the sequins on her kimono sparkling. Ted beams at her. 

“I know you made me promise not to take you to a hospital unless you were actively dying, but that wasn’t a call I could make this time,” Stevie says, a crack in her voice belying her finger poking his hip. 

“We’re getting you health insurance,” Patrick says grimly. 

“Kay,” David says with a yawn. 

“Should he be sleeping?” Patrick asks Ted, who shrugs. 

“I don’t get a lot of concussions at the clinic, to be honest. Mostly just dogs who’ve eaten socks or raccoons who’ve gotten their head stuck in something.” 

“Great.” 

“Alright, someone go get his doctor…” 

David drifts off as they start bickering. 

Over the next few days, he finds out that the FBI had shown up, as Stevie promised, shortly after Patrick had gotten him off the street and into a cab whose driver had apparently been so nonchalant that Patrick ranted about civic duty for a while. 

Walker had tried to run from the scene but had gotten almost immediately tackled by an agent, and although while some of his goons had been arrested in the sweep, many of them including the one who fired the shot had simply melted into the crowd and disappeared. 

Details of the DeutscheBank transactions as well as rumors of mafia ties trickle out in the news, and while there’s no purge of the NYPD, polling starts to show that public sentiment has turned against both the police and the incumbent mayor’s party for letting it happen. There’s a write-in candidate from Queens accumulating a lot of good press on her record of standing up against corporations like Walker’s and NYPD abuse of force, and pundits are forecasting her possibly winning the election in a few weeks. 

David gets released from the hospital and, because he can’t use his bow and arrows while his shoulder heals, sticks to working at the Apothecary with Patrick. They finally sign the agreement with Carmen and David firms up an agreement with the upstate goat soap maker who’s also hoping to work with them. The hospital agrees to negotiate his bill down due to lack of insurance, but he’s still making painfully high monthly payments. Patrick starts going to business seminars and David starts networking at Greenmarkets around the city as well as online and to his great relief their income slowly, carefully starts creeping up. 

Surprisingly, the FBI doesn’t come knocking; Walker must not have spilled the beans on his identity, or if he did they didn’t believe him that the son of a former video rental business tycoon would be running around the city with a bow and arrow at night. The police do come by his hospital room to question how he ended up with a gunshot wound, but he just tells them it was a mugging gone wrong and he never saw the attacker. He nods solemnly when they tell him the odds are low that they’ll find the guy who did it. 

Because Ted works full-time, he can’t jet around the world with Alexis, unlike her previous boyfriends, which means that she’s around much more often. More than once David and Alexis are both trying to have nights in with their boyfriends at the same time, which leads to David and Patrick falling into the habit of using the Apothecary’s back room for more than its intended purpose in a desperation of privacy. 

Stevie insists that he not bother her for a while so that she can catch up on the jobs around the building that she’s been putting off, but she invites herself over for dinner more often than not so he doesn’t actually see her any less, and sometimes she brings Twyla with her. 

One night David, Patrick, Alexis, and Ted are sitting down to a dinner of pasta and garlic bread when Stevie barges into the apartment with a breathless grin. 

“Come on,” she pants, like she’s just run up the four flights of stairs. “Come on!” Without waiting for them to respond, she turns and vanishes out the door. David looks longingly at his spaghetti and reluctantly follows them downstairs, grumbling a little about reheated pasta. 

“Are we really going to eat garlic bread on a double date?” Patrick mutters to him as they clomp down the stairs. “I thought there was a rule against that.” 

“First of all, we are _not_ double-dating with my sister,” David corrects. 

“If everyone has garlic breath, it doesn’t matter!” Ted says cheerfully. “It cancels out.” 

“That’s definitely not how it works,” Alexis says, her chiffon sleeves fluttering after her. 

Stevie enters a code on the pinpad at a fire door tucked behind the stairs on the ground floor. They follow her through and down another set of stairs, cool air wafting up from what’s apparently the basement of the building, which David hadn’t realized existed. 

The staircase opens to a sparse concrete windowless space big enough to fit three of David’s apartment inside, and Stevie waits for them at the bottom. 

“Ta-da!” 

“What is this?” Patrick asks, peering around. There’s a platform in the middle of the room with a row of computers on it, a naked mannequin in the corner, a rack of -- arrows? 

“Oh my god,” David says slowly. 

“Yes!” Stevie insists happily. “I finally finished. You are _welcome_.” 

Alexis walks around the platform, eyes wide, and Ted beelines to a wide cabinet with a red medical cross on it. 

“Stevie, is this a… lair?” Patrick asks slowly. 

“Oh my god,” David repeats. “Oh my god!” he shrieks, jumping up and down with Stevie. “You fucking -- oh my god.” 

“I am so glad I got you health insurance,” Patrick says faintly. 

“Go look at the computers,” David shoos him, and Patrick shoots him a look before going. “I can’t believe you built me a lair,” he says, hugging Stevie to his side with his good arm as they look around. Ted is digging through the medical cabinet and Alexis examines the arrows and spare bow Stevie has on display. 

“By the way, did anyone tell you what it was Baryshnikov was smuggling that night you got shot?” Stevie asks, her arm around his waist. “They reported it on the news the other day. It was chocolate.” 

“What,” David says. “ _What_.” 

“I know.” She snorts and he giggles and they both start laughing helplessly. 

“Counterfeit chocolate, jesus christ. We should’ve just stuck with that. Screw this Walker business.” 

“I think we did alright,” she says thoughtfully. David presses a kiss to the top of her head and hugs her again. 

“Mm, maybe,” he says, his mouth pulled to the side, meaning yes. “Still regret bugging me to get in on this?” 

“Every damn day.” 

He pinches her hip, and her laugh echoes around them. 

**Author's Note:**

> I had so much fun writing this, guys. The Russian mafia in Brooklyn really did get caught illegally trafficking chocolate a few years ago! The next NYC mayoral election is actually in 2021, and de Blasio is ineligible to run for a third term, but November 2021 is so far away that who knows what the political landscape will look like, although I doubt there will be a candidate called Beau Walker. Walker's actually named after Jimmy "Beau James" Walker, who was mayor from 1926-1932 until he was forced resign amid a Tammany Hall corruption scandal. He fled prosecution and when he eventually returned to the States he became the head of a record label. I mean, come on.
> 
> You can reblog [here](https://middyblue.tumblr.com/post/624846666659446784/i-would-shun-the-light-24k-rated-m-a-superhero) and find me at [middyblue](https://middyblue.tumblr.com) on tumblr!


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